Now Let the Night Be Dark
by Unfading
Summary: 10 years after the Final Battle. Harry Potter, now an Auror, while investigating a terrible accident at the magic factory, makes discoveries most strange and disturbing… So what's wrong with the seemingly prosperous Wizarding World? Or is it just Harry?
1. Into the Woods

_Summary_. 10 years after the Final Battle. Harry Potter, now an Auror, while investigating a terrible accident at the magic factory, makes discoveries most strange and disturbing… So what's wrong with the seemingly prosperous Wizarding World? Or is it just Harry?

Genre: General/Mystery

Lead characters: Harry Potter (first part), Hermione Granger (second part)

Other characters: Theodore Nott, Ginny Weasley, Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, other minor canon characters and some OC.

Pairings: starts canonically as Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione. There might be some changes later, but overall, this is not a romance fic.

Disclaimer: all belongs to JKR except this little adventure.

_AN_: After DH came out, I had a strong feeling that some principal moral conflicts of HP series were not resolved. So, I decided to write this. Don't know if I have the patience to finish this story (for it is long), but I really hope that I will.

The title of the fic was taken from the poem _Acceptance _by Robert Frost. In the end, this story is about acceptance... in a sense.

* * *

**Now Let the Night Be Dark**

_My bonds are cut, my debts are paid, my door has been opened, I go everywhere._

_They crouch in their corner and weave their web of pale hours, they count their coins sitting in the dust and call me back._

_But my sword is forged, my armour is put on, my horse is eager to run._

_I shall win my kingdom._

_Rabindranath Tagore. __LXXIV, Fruit Gathering_

**Part I.**

**Chapter 1. Into the Woods**

In the beginning of October, on a quiet and pleasant evening, a young man of about twenty five, dressed in washed-out jeans and a dingy dark-green windbreaker, arrived at the small railway station of Cold Waters.

As the train that had conveyed the young man to his destination departed, he took his travelling bag off his shoulder and opened it up. The Station Custodian, Mr Slopey, watched the young man's actions with his usual laziness, but at the same time not without a bit of curiosity. Meanwhile, the newly arrived seemed to have found the thing he had been looking in the bag; and it appeared to be a bright-coloured pocket-book, in which Mr Slopey immediately recognized the popular edition of a local tourist guide. A tourist, thought Mr Slopey with a slight grimace. He didn't like stupid idle tourists, nor did he even try to pretend otherwise.

'You won't make it in shoes like these,' said he as the young man came nearer.

'Oh, won't I?' The tourist's voice was touchingly naïve. 'But the folks on the train said that the trails here are rather good, and -' he looked at his brochure '- and the guide also says so.'

Mr Slopey found some kind of amusement in the tourist's helplessness. 'You may as well throw it away, that paper of yours. This is not a weekend walk, lad. Never been to mountains before, have you?'

'In fact, I have,' answered the young man softly. He wasn't smiling anymore.

But Mr Slopey chose to pay no attention at that change of the stranger's attitude. 'Where then? Alps, Caucasus? Or even Himalayas, by chance?'

'No. Just Carpathians, Transylvania.' The young man shut his book abruptly and lifted his eyes at the Custodian.

Something in this gaze, though it was not exactly menacing or penetrating, nevertheless made Mr Slopey feel very uneasy, and he restrained himself from future comments.

To say the truth, the young man didn't need them. He continued his way to the end of the platform, to the small rickety gate in the fence. When he was about to open it, the Custodian suddenly recollected:

'Hey! Sir! You've got the wrong way! The village is in the opposite direction!'

But the young man ignored the warning. The gate was broken and could be opened only to a small degree, but he managed to squeeze carefully between it and the rusty fence, and disappeared from the sight, leaving Mr. Slopey to his everyday lonely complaints about the bad weather, solitude, mosquitoes, stupid tourists, and the injustice of life in general.

oxXxo

The tired-of-life Custodian was certainly exaggerating the miserable condition of local wood trails. They were not perfect, of course, but quite passable, and the young man found the way even enjoyable. The bad impression of this place, which had been created in him by the Custodian's rudeness, soon completely vanished, giving place to an unreserved admiration of the cold beauty of the surrounding forest.

Indeed, the gloomy this wood was, it was truly impressive. Gigantic pines, tall and impeccably straight, were alternated with branchy spreading firs, whose dark-green needles seemed almost black in the dim reddish light of the sunset. Several yew trees, which he noticed on the way, looked even frightening in the deepening darkness.

More secluded place could hardly be imagined. The village of Cold Waters, a mile and a half from the station, with its three hundred population was the only remarkable settlement in the neighbourhood. He stopped for a moment and listened. Every forest has its sounds, the signs of its half-hidden everlasting life; but this one was silent; or at least, it seemed so to him. After a minute or two, the young man roused himself, slightly shivering from the cold air, and continued his journey. However, now he was walking very slowly, constantly watching the needle-covered soil under his feet, as if in hope to find a lost jewel. It was questionable whether he was indeed trying to find something, but there could be no doubt that he would not succeed if he were, for it grew darker with every minute. Nevertheless, the nightfall had seemingly no effect on the young man: he went into the forest deeper and deeper and obviously showed no intention of coming back within the next few hours. Such kind of behaviour was undoubtedly suspicious, and did not suited at all to an idle weekend tourist whom the stranger had supposed to be.

Suddenly the tourist noticed something white in the thickening darkness ahead of him, and stopped for a moment, fixing his eyes on the strange spot. It was nothing but a simple tree-stump; the chip was rather fresh. The young man directed his steps towards the stump, moving carefully, not making a sound. Then he performed a rather strange act: he knelt down before the stump, moving his face right up to the moist wood surface, and passed his hand slowly over the top of the stump. After that, he froze, as if trying to perceive something, and stood motionless for about minute or two. It remained unclear if the young man found what he had been going to find; he simply stand up and, having shaken off the dirt from his jeans, continued his walk through the woods.

An exterior observer would obviously find this walk suspicious, at least; and the deepening moonless night had made it look even sinister. The 'tourist' made several more stops, always in order to do something unusual; he would dig in the rotten and mouldy pieces of brushwood, or pick up some dead needles of the fir-trees, or immerse his hands into the dirty puddles of water remained after a recent rain – all of those not losing his serious and somewhat dreamy look.

The end of his journey was no less weird, for it seemed as no end at all. He just stopped all of a sudden, as if having bumped unto an invisible wall, at a spot that was no different from any other one in the forest. And so he just stood there, unmoving, with his gaze seemingly empty, eyes focused somewhere in the darkness before him.

With no rustle from his steps, there would be almost a complete silence – if it were not for small noises of the forest, previously muffled by the human's intrusion. Silence grew, and the sounds became more distinct; they seemed closer now, as if they were slowly surrounding the young man. A person more apprehensive would have obviously started to feel uncomfortable, giving in to irrational fear of the unknown. But the young man remained calm and motionless; probably, the game of his imagination failed to frighten him with the invisible horrors of the woods. Or, maybe, he was so resistant namely because he knew exactly what these horrors were.

For it seemed that the young man was aware of what he was doing, no matter how strange his actions were. He obviously knew what to expect from this forest, from this cold October moist, and from the darkness that surrounded him.

Thus, it had been almost predictable that he was not at all surprised by the sounds of voices, coming to him from somewhere in that darkness.

oxXxo

'Hey, Chris, you sure that we should place all the watches at the same spot? You know, when the distance from the epicentre varies, we could obtain more illustrative diagrams later...'

'If we knew where that blasted epicentre was, sure. But this is not the case.' The reply sounded somewhat angry. 'I doubt that there is an epicentre at all. Or anything else, for that matter. Who put all those stupid marks there? Almost all at wrong places! We spend five days here – and for nothing!'

'Well, I can't agree with you here. Surely we collected some useful data for the folks. And our observations…'

'Observations of what, Frank? Of broken trees? Or this pointless hearing of the air? Damn, all we found is that suspicious, as you called it, stone!'

'But I am _sure_ that this spring has to be somewhere nearby. It is the place. I swear!'

'No need to shout at me. I do believe you,' answered Chris, but without any spirit.

'No you don't! You're just pretending, that's it,' said Frank resentfully. 'Well, never mind. But what about Miranda saw? Wasn't this a proof? Or that man that Dave caught on the radio…'

'Miranda is almost blind without her spectacles. She can see whatever she wants. Besides, no one else was able to see that bridge or something. And as for your friend David, well, I suppose that he just intercepted some lame tourists having fun with their radiophones.'

'There are no tourists, Chris. The weather is bad for sight-seeing.'

'But of course, Frank! Only we were stupid enough to spend our vacation searching of don't-know-what. But who told you that these tourists weren't sitting somewhere in the pub down in the valley and making fun of us?' Chris's voice was full with mockery.

'Enough, Chris! If you don't like what we are doing, why don't you just leave? Why did you come here at all at first place? No one forced you into this, and there won't be any offence taken if you just go. If all that you do is sneering at us…' The speaker paused as if being unable to find words.

'Stop questioning my reasons, Frank! You think you are the honest one, do you? Oh, the last hope of a modern ufology! But wasn't it you who came here just because of Miranda? Everybody knows that, even that dormant David! Not because of the meteorite, the UFO, the spring with blowing water, the time anomaly or whatever you pretend that it is - '

'Leave Miranda out of this, understand? And shut up!' Frank's voice sounded rather menacing and clearly was not promising anything good for Chris.

'Or you do what? Cut me with your lightsaber? - _Ouch!_' Chris shrank back with a cry of astonishment. But it was not Frank who caused such a loud response (though he was pretty close to), but something totally unexpected for both of them.

Just before them, in a spot from Chris's pocket flashlight, a stranger stood – a young man in old jeans and a windbreaker, bedraggled with forest dirt. For a moment it seemed that there was something weird and even frightening about that figure, appeared as if out of nowhere, but then the feeling was gone, and neither Chris nor Frank could possibly explain what it was.

The stranger looked at them, blinking weak-sightedly, and then smiled.

'Hi,' he said confusedly. 'Sorry, but it seems that I kind of got lost here in the woods. Could you… um… help me please?'

oxXxo

Ten minutes later their unexpected night guest was sitting at the campfire, watching slackly as a sheaf of the sparks was rising into the moonless sky. The late dinner, consisting of baked potatoes and of gigantic pot of muddy tea, seemed to bring him to his senses.

'Well, do you feel better now?' The girl named Miranda decided to break the silence.

'Oh, certainly, thank you very much,' he replied cordially. 'You nearly saved my life! Who could imagine that it is still possible to get lost in the woods just near the station!'

'You were going to Cold Waters, right?' asked the thin-haired guy to his left; the young man already knew that the guy's name was Chris.

'Well, not exactly.' He dropped his eyes. 'I - I was going to see the…' And he silenced as if in total confusion.

'To see what? The UFO?' asked Chris bluntly.

'Yes,' the young man gave a short laugh. 'That's even more stupid, right?'

They exchanged their looks. Suddenly, the bald lad in a baseball cap – Frank, he recalled – laughed.

'You won't believe, but we came here for exactly the same reason!'

'Which, as you rightfully mentioned, is very stupid indeed,' Chris mumbled.

'Oh, I'm sorry.' The young man looked very disappointed. 'I did not mean to be rude.'

'Don't worry, you weren't,' said Chris. 'What's wrong in telling the truth?'

Frank just shrugged his shoulders at that rather pathetic exclamation, while Miranda, a slender girl who was sitting on the other side of the fire, gave their guest an apologetic look. It seemed that they had accustomed to Chris's less than companionable attitude.

'Well, anyway,' said Miranda. 'There is no UFO there, and I'd say that there's never been one. I guess that you were fooled with those local rumours.'

'Hmm, they even have these rumours printed in county newspaper,' Frank added. 'You are here because of this, aren't you, Harold?'

'Name's Harry,' corrected the young man with a smile. 'And – yes, I think I am, or at least partially. You see, I was visiting my friends in the neighbourhood, and they told me about this place - about the lights, UFOs and the staff. You know, not that I'm a fan of it – but well, it was just interesting. What if there was indeed something?..'

'So, you just decided to investigate.' Frank knowingly nodded. 'And then lost your way.'

'Why, I found you three instead,' smiled Harry. 'Not bad at all.'

'There are four of us indeed,' said Chris. 'Dave is in the tent, tinkering up with the transmitter.'

'Has he found his mysterious interlocutors, Miranda?' asked Frank.

'No,' the girl replied shortly, and then turned to Harry, explaining: 'Yesterday he caught a snatch of a rather weird talk.'

'A weird talk?' repeated Harry curiously.

'Don't know exactly what it was about; only Dave heard it. But he said it was two men arguing about some explosion or something.'

Harry's face definitely expressed his interest, which was enough for Frank to continue:

'It was by chance, you know. Certainly they were not radio amateurs; they talked just as the usual people do. Dave thought at first that they were some terrorists,' Frank said with frightening buoyancy, 'but then it turned that they weren't. It seemed that they were in danger, and very afraid. Dave said that it was as if they knew that something bad should happen to them.'

'They were afraid? Of what?' asked Harry quickly.

'I don't know, but this all was rather weird. Somewhat disturbing, you know. Dave could not just think it all up; he's not the man, you see. It was clear for us that there might be some people who possibly needed help. But no matter how hard we tried, we wee unable to hear them again. And another odd thing is that that according to the signal, they had to be within a mile from here, and we know for sure that there are no people nearby.'

'We could not be absolutely sure, Frank,' Chris interrupted.

'How could we have missed them? We turned every stone within two miles at least! We would have certainly found them… unless they were hiding on a purpose,' added Frank mysteriously.

'Or perhaps they were just passing by, like Harry,' Chris sniffed, and Frank immediately turned to him:

'I know what you think, Chris. But even you can't deny that it's all very strange. It was not the usual talk of the tourists or geologists; neither was it some prank of radio hams.'

Chris was about to say something, but then just waved his hand and sighed.

For several minutes, the group sat in complete silence. Harry watched as the fire burned out, feeling an irresistible desire to fall sleep, and mused about those strange people, who chose to spend their free time on such an obscure hobby as looking for UFOs. They even had the special gear for that: he noticed some cumbersome devices in one of the tents. Damn, that complex state-of-the-art apparatus could make even the silliest beliefs sound very respectable. At least he hoped that it was useful to his new acquaintances: in fact, Harry rather liked them despite all their weirdness.

'Hey, Harry, you are almost asleep!' said Frank genially.

'Well, it's past midnight already,' he answered with a deliberate yawn, checking his old watch.

'Come on, I'll fetch you the sleeping-bag.' Stretching himself, Frank rose from his seat.

Harry followed. He was to sleep in the tent of Dave's. The latter appeared to be a sullen dark guy who barely looked at him and just nodded curtly, not taking off his earphones. Half of the space was occupied by the big and noisy transmitter; and Dave was hanging over it, perfectly still, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance, his fingers on the tuning handle moving slightly. He was probably still trying to find those lost men he had heard – a hopeless task, to Harry's opinion. But he left his thoughts to himself, quickly got into the sleeping bag and turned to the opposite wall, as far as possible from the crackling transmitter.

He was almost asleep when he heard the voices, coming from behind the tent's wall. It seemed that another tent was standing very close to this one. Harry became all ears; his sleep vanished at once.

oxXxo

'You were quarrelling again?' inquired Miranda.

'A bit,' answered Chris unwillingly.

She did not reply anything.

'It's a waste of time, you know. I'm leaving tomorrow,' he said after a pause.

'Yes, I agree. I think we all have to go.' Miranda's voice was strangely emotionless.

'Because of me?' he asked with a sudden worry.

'No, of course not. We just won't find anything here. As you've said.'

'You know, I really do believe you. That you saw that bridge and the highway,' he said, a hint of guilt in his voice.

'But it's not the proof you'd like,' the reply was sad and sincere. 'Just nothing, as all of it. And I don't believe that we possibly could find any evidence which is more than nothing. None of us ever did.'

'Yes, it is hard and discouraging, I know,' said Chris, and Harry was surprised how soft and gently his tone was. 'And this is the main reason why ufology is still not a science it should be. We are too fast to jump to the conclusions, while having no verifiable facts. We are tempted by the unusual, fooled by our constant expectation of wonder. And the eagerness of the people like Frank makes the things even worse. With such an attitude, we will never be taken seriously.'

She sighed and said nothing. Harry thought that such an answer would end the conversation; but then, she spoke again:

'You know, from all of us, maybe you are the only one who really believes in what we are doing. Now I see it so clearly. You are not playing, like Frank; and not pretending that it's a mere aesthetical experience, as I do... I think we shouldn't have called you at all; it would be at least honest.'

There was a soft rustle, and then came Chris's somewhat reserved answer:

'Well, if _that_ is what you think - maybe we could stay for a couple of days after all. I still have this one little idea how we can locate this anomaly. A rather stupid one, but – hey, who knows. Don't tell Frank yet, no need to encourage him; but it just might work.'

'If you say so,' answered Miranda absentmindedly. 'Maybe the stupid idea is just what we need in such a strange place.

'And it is a _very _strange place,' she continued, as if a dream. 'We hear what there is not. We see what there is not. Even the time here is not the time we used to live in… It flows not as it supposed to. It's not just our watches, Chris. Remember, yesterday there was such a strange fog – all white, like milk, and I thought that thousands ages passed over us, and then it disappeared without a trace…Of course, this was just an illusion, but for a moment I thought that I saw –'

'What?'

'Nevermind… But the spring that Frank found last year – the water in the flask _did_ blow up, I saw it myself… And then those talks on the radio… They were real…'

'Uhm-mm. I _do_ believe, I've said already.'

'Oh, and Chris. Could it be that this Harry is one of them?' Miranda was clearly falling asleep, and her words became harder and harder to understand. 'What if they sent him to spy on us?'

'Whom - that poor guy? This is ridiculous.' The answer was half-laugh, half-yawn. 'He's just a plain boring tourist. He certainly has nothing to do with it… Good night, Miranda.'

'Good night, Chris.'

...In the tent next to theirs, "a plain boring tourist" Harry Potter smiled to himself. He had learnt everything he needed for today.

* * *

_Thank you very much for reading. This__ was the beginning - what do you think?_

_Next Chapter: We __will learn why the woods were so strange, and what Harry was doing there._


	2. Cold Factory: Chronicle of Events

_AN:_ My warmest thanks to all who reviewed and added my story to their favs! I'll try not to disappoint you!

_This chapter:_ we learn something about the Factory's history and witness Harry questioning the only survivor...

* * *

**Chapter 2. ****The Cold Factory: Chronicle of Events**

The next morning, right after breakfast, Harry said goodbye to the hospitable ufologists and, having politely declined the offer to accompany him to the station, departed. It took him some efforts to persuade over-eager Frank that he would not get lost again, but Harry succeeded at last and finally was left to himself.

His road back was not as full of events as it had been the day before: he made no more stops, nor did he try to find anything in the forest soil. His thoughts, however, were no less intense. Again and again, he repeated in his memory the details of the terrible catastrophe that happened there a year and a half ago and had turned the nearby forest to a deadly trap; the catastrophe probably most immense in the whole history of Magic World.

This catastrophe was the reason for his being here. More than a year had passed since that fateful night, but still, no one was completely sure what had caused the demolition of The Cold Factory, resulting in the awful tragedy which could have taken thousands of human lives at one stroke.

oxXxo

Cold Waters Liquid Time Magic Factory, informally known as 'The Cold Factory', had been built in a record-breaking time: only ten months had passed from the day when the project's creator, Herbert Rosier, presented the blueprints to the Higher Council, till the great and pompous opening ceremony. Harry was not present there at that grand day – he had been invited, of course, but declined, and now could not remember why – but Hermione and Ron attended, and were very much impressed; each because of the different reasons, though. Ron was primarily struck dumb with huge rotating mirrors and some "moving bands on the wheels" (which, as Harry understood later, were just plain muggle conveyors), while Hermione, being true to herself, admired the brilliant and inventive theories behind the process. She even tried to explain them to Harry, telling him, how clever everything was thought and what the amazing people muggles were – "for they invented all that technology by themselves, without any help of magic, can you imagine? They didn't even know the simplest things like…" – and then Harry was fed up with a lecture most detailed, dedicated entirely to the subject of "what muggles did not know"; all theories were explained in a very comprehensive manner, chronologically, and were illustrated with numerous examples and references to the achievements in every branch of magic science. With every minute of that explanation Harry (who was never interested in pure theory - and neither wanted to) understood less and less; and at last, when Hermione moved on to the description of the latest discoveries of some Russian physicists with utterly unpronounceable surnames, he even ventured to change the topic of the conversation. Not that Harry regretted it now, but he thought that it could be useful to ask Hermione for another lecture: he should be familiar with the complex mechanism of Liquid Time making; nothing would come from his search otherwise.

Anyways, launched with such pomp and florid speeches, The Cold Factory started to work, and it worked without rousing a slightest censure. Even the pilot lot of its production – consisted of standard Anesthesiers for 's – was highly praised by those who tested it: according to clinic's healers, factory-made Anesthesiers were by no means worse than the hand-made ones; and, besides, they were absolutely identical – which could have never been achieved by a handicraft making – and thus much more convenient in use.

After the first success, more complex orders followed; they included such things as magical paints for artists, self-filled books, Penseive fillers, devices for retrospective astrology, auto-tuned Crystal Balls, enhanced modifications of Floo Powder – and many, many others. Harry was really impressed with the list of objects that had been produced at The Cold Factory: he had never fully understood how many uses Liquid Time had; it was quite unexpected and even a little strange.

And, which was most important, the production of all this variety cost literally nothing. All Wizarding World could be heaped with that almost-free stuff in a one-week time. Of course, the Ministry of Magic and the chief wizarding financiers, Gringotts goblins, prevented that from happening in a fear of financial crises; but even being restrained by them, the Factory succeeded in filling the market with the quantity of magical devices sufficient to make happy each and every one of British mages. The prices were more than reasonable. It was indeed true: if before a simple Speaking Cauldron, or, say, a Pensieve were so expensive that only a few could afford them (for instance, Molly and Arthur Weasley had not even dreamed of it) - then now every wizard could become a happy owner, be he an ever-poor student or a plain rural warlock.

It went without saying how satisfied everybody was. Timid complaints of some antiquity lovers - and such people are present in every age - were few and far between and soon completely dissolved in an assembly of enthusiastic appreciations of the wizarding inhabitants from all over the world. Of course, there were some exceptions, especially among the so-called 'old nobility', but, first, there were only a few such families left, and, second, the public opinion in those times was not well-disposed towards them.

The foreign magic communities, which at the beginning had taken the wait-and-see attitude – mainly because they tried to be cautious with the idea that was rumoured to be born in the mind of none other than infamous Gellert Grindelwald – now left their anxieties behind and began to work on similar projects in their native countries.

Meanwhile, British mages, rightfully believing that the resting on their laurels was not the best policy, decided to strengthen their advantage and started to think about the possible improvements of The Cold Factory project. From the official sources, it could be learnt that one and a half year ago the Department of Mysteries' specialists had at least three new proposals prepared, each one developed to a slightest detail and completely ready for implementation.

oxXxo

On the night of 12 of June, at two thirty-five after midnight (the precise time was ascertained later), a dazzle-bright green shine flared over the north outskirts of the Blackwood, and then disappeared within a split second. The flash was absolutely silent and bore no resemblance either to lighting or to the festive fireworks. The population of the farther lands, on the contrary, allegedly saw not a single flash, but rather a vast pale radiance, slowly rising at the horizon – not quite unlike it used to happen before the dawn. Luckily, the shining was mistaken for Aurora Borealis, which could be seen under those latitudes, though extremely rarely – and by that the upcoming work of the Department of Information was made much simpler, for now they would not need to invent some special muggle explanations, or, as they called it, 'muggle-worthy excuses', for the 'unusual atmospheric phenomenon'. The seismic stations around Cold Waters had registered a weak underground shock, but since its characteristics were typical for the local geoactivity, it attracted no attention whatsoever.

The first report on the disaster came to the Ministry only twenty minutes later, and, surprisingly, not to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, but for some reason to the Department of Mysteries. The young trainee who was on duty that night was so shaken by the terrible news that he became completely disoriented, not sure how he should behave in those circumstances; and he could think of nothing better than to send howlers to all of the Department's Heads. That impulsive act had caused a monstrous panic among British wizards and gave a life to the numerous most frightening theories and rumours – which, being widespread by susceptible to sensations journalists, made the things even worse. All that, of course, severely complicated the work of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes and of the hastily-made Committee of Investigation.

The subsequent reconstruction of the events showed clearly that the entire Factory had been destroyed in seconds; and that the green shine over the woods, visible several days after and fading gradually, was caused by the simultaneous release of the great amounts of half-processed Liquid Time. As a result of the outburst, the nearby forest was polluted so heavily that it took the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad a full weak to clean it to an at least acceptable level.

Of course, traces of the explosion could not be wiped completely - or at least, not in the nearest future. The largest anomalies, such as unnaturally scorched trees, pools of diluted liquid time or springs with exploding water, were eliminated by the Reversal Squad, but the smaller ones remained. Harry had seen some of them during his walk in the woods last evening. The strange fog and time-mirages that Miranda had seen were phenomena of the same kind, as well as the unexplainable behaviour of muggle watches. But as for the talk Dave had caught on the radio, Harry was still in doubt.

The cleansing of the land, however, was by no manner of means their only problem. When the initial shock was over, very appropriate questions began to arise. What had really happened that night? What had caused the disaster? What, or who, was guilty of it? Could it be sabotage? Or, maybe, it was some unaccounted factor in the project that resulted in the Factory's destruction?

Unfortunately, all theorizations were built on mere guesses – or, at least, that's how it had been in the beginning. No one present at the Factory that night had survived the catastrophe – with the exception of a single man, who was but an unskilled worker and thus was of little help to the Committee. Poor fellow was on shift when it happened and managed to stay alive only because he was transferred in time to the day after the explosion. His tale was very vague, and explanations confused. According to him, everything had been just as at any other day, nothing unusual, no strangers visiting.

Of course this story had not ruled out the possibility of diversion. Former Death Eaters, who went into hiding after Voldemort's defeat, though not great in number those days, were still seen in different places all over the country. However, as far as Harry's colleagues knew, those pitiful remnants were concerned with nothing but their own fate; and certainly weren't hatching out the plots as scaled as their former leader had used to. Still, what if some of them had organized and moved to more active policy? It would have been quite natural if the most noticeable enterprise of the entire Wizarding World had become their target...

The Committee of Investigation had surely considered that possibility as well as the many others – but in the end they came to the different conclusion, a much prosier one. From the memories of the only survivor, it was very clear that the safety rules at the Factory had not been observed as strictly as they should be. Tragically, it appeared that it was him, the mere person who survived, who had made that fateful mistake, which cost so many lives and completely destroyed the Factory.

oxXxo

With these thoughts on his mind, Harry noticed that he had already come to the familiar rusty gate in the station's fence. This time, the gate was closed shut with the big barn lock. Harry smiled to himself and easily jumped over the low fence.

The Station Custodian watched him from his usual place on the chipped bench with clear disapproval. As Harry came closer, he said gloomily:

'The next train is at three fifteen. So you have plenty of time to go sightseeing again.'

Harry smiled broadly and answered, still playing the dumb-witted cheerful tourist:

'Oh, thank you for your advice, sir. But I'd rather stay here, with you.' He sat on the bench just beside the Custodian. 'We have so much to discuss, really,' he added most enthusiastically.

Mr Slopey cast a sidelong look at the unwelcome intruder: 'Sorry, mister, but I'm not in the mood for the chit-chat. So you're just wasting your time here.'

'Wasting my time? Me?' cried Harry with an overdone surprise and exclaimed pathetically: 'Never!' Then he lowered his voice and added: 'Though I'm not so sure about _you_, my dear Mr Archibald Slopey.'

The Station Custodian sprang to his feet on the instant.

'What – How did you know – _Who are you_?'

Harry had also got up and was looking narrowly at the Custodian; the smile completely vanished from his face. And then poor Mr Slopey understood.

'You! You're a blasted _Auror_!' he exclaimed furiously.

'At your service.' Harry bowed archly, no more pretending. 'But let's better get inside your house. I think it will be much more convenient to talk there.'

'I must watch the trains,' said the Custodian sullenly.

'The next one is at three fifteen, so we have plenty of time,' reminded him Harry. 'Come on, Mr Slopey; the sooner we begin the sooner it'll be over.'

There was nothing to be done, and Mr Slopey, the very factory worker who survived, silently proceeded to his house, accompanied by Harry Potter, an Auror.

oxXxo

The interior of the small apartment matched Mr Slopey's image perfectly: dark and shabby, it had a distinct air of negligence about it. Harry looked warily at the ancient couch padded with extremely dirty chequered cloth, but since the only other piece of furniture suitable for sitting – the three-leg wooden stool – was already occupied by the Custodian himself, he had no other choice than to sit down at the suspicious couch and hope that it was at least bug-free.

'I hope that you are not treating other people in the manner you showed me, Mr. Slopey,' Harry began.

'Muggles, not people,' said the Custodian bitterly. 'Those oafs notice no difference.'

Not the best start, Harry thought. But at least now he knew how to conduct a conversation with this man.

'The Muggle Abuse Committee will be happy to hear that,' he said coldly. 'In case you've forgotten, the term of your staying here depends on their recommendation. As well as on ours.'

'I'd rather be in Azkaban! Just a year there – still much better than this shameful exile.'

Harry felt a sudden flow of anger: Slopey had certainly no idea what he was talking about. Had he met a Dementor even once…

'Azkaban was closed for good five years ago. It will never become a prison again,' said Harry firmly, forcing himself to remain calm. But he could not help adding: 'Anyway, I really _don't _think that you'd prefer being there. You may not be overjoyed with the muggle society, but I assure you that Dementors would make much less pleasant company than the local folks.'

Slopey raised his bloodshot eyes and looked at Harry with undisguised hate.

'I wish you knew how I feel now,' he muttered. 'I wish you knew, what it means, to be stripped of everything; of your life; of your heart; of your very essence. I wish that _you_ lived in this nightmare –' overwhelmed, the Custodian broke off.

Harry sighed and answered patiently: 'Mr. Slopey, please, listen to me. I came here not as your enemy. There is no need to be angry with me. You will gain nothing from it. If, on the contrary, you choose to help – then, probably, something could come out from that.'

'I was not guilty,' the Custodian said with a spiteful stubbornness. 'I just happened to be the only one who survived, that's it. I've told you that thousand times. You've made me drink that Truth potion of yours, so you know that I'm not lying.'

As far as Harry could remember the case, there was no mentioning of the interrogation under Veritaserum. Though, watching Slopey's helpless swearing, he somehow perceived that the Custodian was telling the truth and was not trying to fool him. Well, it was worth to ask someone in the Ministry about it…

'That's why there will be no harm if I ask you several more questions,' said Harry with the calm friendliness.

'Fine, go on,' Slopey grumbled, giving up.

'I've watched your memories of that night in the Pensieve,' Harry said. 'It seemed to me that you were quite relaxed, even joked with your fellow co-workers. Had the order that was in the production demanded so little efforts?'

'Well, it was an easy one. Two barrels of Developer for the Experimental Charms. A child's play. Almost no additional processing was required. You see, Developer is the same Liquid Time, only concentrated. We expected them to be ready at the dawn, if we're lucky.'

'What does it mean "if you were lucky"? Wasn't the production strictly scheduled?' Harry frowned, not quite catching Slopey's explanation. From the process description he had read while familiarizing himself with the case, it clearly followed that the producing of a certain unit required a precisely estimated amount of time. Right timing there was essential.

Slopey gave a short laugh: 'Well. It's supposed to be. On paper, that's it. But in real life it all was different. Time is a complicated thing, you know. It depends on plenty of stuff. The Moon phases. The weather. The season of the year. The Sun, the stars, the people around, their mood, their movements, or what they've eaten at breakfast or Merlin knows what else. There always were those… _deviations_,' he produced at last, proud that he had found the right word.

'And how big exactly were those deviations?' Harry asked. 'Or rather, how long they were?'

Slopey shrugged. 'Well, it depends. Could be just ten minutes. Could be an hour. Could be a day. Who knows.'

The report of the Investigation Committee touched the subject only briefly and certainly did not mention that the errors were so significant. But still, Harry wasn't sure if his predecessors deliberately decided to omit the problem.

'So you're saying it was all in the day work,' he repeated as if in doubt, 'but I think that there were some people who still worried about that, weren't there?'

'I guess they were. More so later, when the delays became much longer. The foremen, the bosses. Those blokes from the Ministry. Of course they were not happy. Were checking the machines all the time, calculated something, and even invited an astrologer once. That one grappled with our clairvoyant. What a sight it was!' and Slopey burst into an unkind laughter.

'Did Herbert Rosier, the project creator, come to the Factory when the troubles began?' interrupted him Harry. 'You know him, don't you?'

'Never seen him. I heard that they invited him in the end – as a last resort. But he never came. Had died, I heard. Some accident. They promised to send us somebody from the continent instead, the guys from the Ministry I mean. Didn't have time, though.'

Slopey's words implied that the Ministry was aware of problems at the Factory, Harry thought. It seemed that they simply chose not to talk about it. Hmm, very interesting.

'I see,' he nodded. 'You were left to yourself with those troubles. So what measures had been taken? Had your bosses implemented any additional precautions?'

'What for? They were just occasional delays. Well, maybe we used too much power sometimes; more than we should. But it was easy to obtain: even if there were no things produced, the Factory was still operating and consuming power. It's all in the books that you found, all the figures. Or you think that I blew up the Factory _and_ stole the power as well?'

'Speaking of the latter possibility – I really don't know; and, to say the truth, couldn't care less,' said Harry. 'But as to the fact that your actions that night had caused the Factory destruction – '

'No they hadn't!' roared Slopey. 'Yes, I did not follow the instructions – so what? You think that any of us was working by the book? With all that stupid rules and procedures? Quite wrong! In our job, only important things mattered – not all that rubbish. And I knew how to do my job; I wasn't born yesterday, you see. I was working here when this Factory was being built. I was building it! And I knew every damned bit about it – more than all those Unspeakables taken together!'

Well, that was clearly an overstatement, but Harry understood Slopey's feelings. Which did not mean, of course, that he failed to apprehend the extent of his guilt.

'Please, calm down, Mr Slopey,' he said. 'If you didn't know what caused those, as you said, deviations – how could you be so sure that it wasn't some of your actions?'

'Well, I say you this. I may not know who or what caused that damned factory to blow up. But I _did_ know that_ I_ have nothing to do with it! You could gather as many Committees as you like. Invite all your Auror friends here. It's so easy to find who's guilty - because, hey, there's the only one who could be made guilty. A nice excuse, don't you think? You believe that I'm just a poor foolish scum? But I know I'm right. All those clever wizards from the Committee weren't there._ I_ was. And I knew better.'

'So what's happened here then?' inquired Harry.

He did not expect Slopey to answer – and the man had not indeed. But it didn't matter anyway: he had already mentioned some quite interesting things in his story. Harry doubted that Slopey could give anything more than that. He had a single question left:

'And tell me, Mr. Slopey, had anybody at all there expected that the Factory might explode? Maybe you heard some talks? Not?'

The Custodian remained morosely silent.

'Well, thank you for your efforts, Mr. Slopey,' Harry said, rising. 'You were most helpful. We'll inform you if something could be done in regard to your… circumstances.' And he headed towards the door.

When Harry was already at the threshold, Slopey suddenly put his hand against the doorframe, blocking the exit, and then moved his face very close, nearly assaulting Harry with the smell of garlic.

'This thing had to blow up sooner or later,' Slopey whispered out, looking at Harry like a madman. 'That's how it's made, the bloody thing. Not the real magic, just some filth. You asked who'd been expecting that - well,_ I_ had. I was expecting that every minute. When my shift would come, I was frightened to death. Even made me an amulet. Ha! As if it could've helped. Worthless, completely waste of time. Indeed. What a_ waste of time_, ha-ha! They should not have built it at all,' and he silenced, breathing heavily, his mad eyes still upon Harry.

The latter sustained Slopey's long, heavy glance without a flinch. Then he nodded and said, nothing but politeness in his voice:

'Have a good day, Mr Slopey.'

Slowly, as in a dream, Mr. Slopey took his hand away and let his visitor out.

* * *

_So the intrigue has begun... R&R, please!_

_Next chapter: Harry studies some interesting documents from The Cold Factory case..._


	3. Against Growing Cold

AN. Thank you, Star Mirage! While I think it is perfectly possible to guess what's happened with the LT-factory, the really important question is 'why'. And this is not the only mystery here! He-he…

Chapter 3 turned to be a rather large piece of writing when I finished it, so I decided to break it into two smaller ones. So the next update will be pretty soon!

_This chapter_: Harry continues his investigation and finds a new piece of evidence… But first, we'll have a glimpse of Ginny's life as a married woman. 

* * *

**Chapter 3.**** Against Growing Cold**

At the crack of dawn, Ginny Potter, née Weasley, was already full awake. She looked at the empty space at the twin bed beside her, frowned, then shifted the blanket aside, got out of bed, threw a brief glance at the mirror and went downstairs, still in her green silk night gown.

The kitchen was perfectly clean. Ginny looked suspiciously at the small scratch on the oven's door, passed her hand over it several times, and remained relatively content with the examination. Harry was nowhere to be seen. Ginny sighed and took a pack of Gusto's Glad Grain from the shelf, about to prepare her usual breakfast. As she moved one of her special breakfast cups, she noticed an old pack of those awful muggle biscuits hidden behind – it seemed that Harry again could not resist the temptation. Ginny shook her head with a picturesque disapproval and took the malicious pack away, throwing it mercilessly in the garbage bin where it belonged. Harry of course would thank her… later. Having a long career in sports behind, she _certainly_ understood the importance of healthy food better than he did.

Finally, she took the freshly-prepared cup of chocolate, reached out for the recently bought "_Till the Death Us Part: Things That a Married Witch Should Know Before It's Too Late_" by famous Esmeralda Zabini, sat down and began to study the book with that inimitable impression which only women considering themselves _quite successful_ in the matter possessed.

She was in the middle of "_Against Growing Cold_" chapter, when a quiet bubbling sound reached her ears. Ginny carefully put the book aside, not forgetting to mark a page, and only then rose and moved to the sitting room, were the Speaking Cauldron was installed.

Ginny looked at the murky liquid inside: Molly's features were forming in the depth. She sighed, adjusted her hair, then lapped over her night gown; and only after that attended to the call.

'Ginny dear!'

'Hi, mum.'

'You weren't answering for so long. Are you all right?'

'Yes, mum. I'm all right.' She looked at the large clock on the mantelpiece. 'Why are you calling so early? Anything happened?'

'Oh, did I wake you up?'

'No, I wasn't sleeping. I was – '

'But you're still in your night gown…' Molly narrowed her eyes. 'Don't remember this one. Is it new?'

'Fleur gave it to me at my last birthday. It's French.'

'Ah, _Fleur_,' drawled Mrs. Weasley. 'Nice one, though.'

Ginny felt that her left leg was becoming numb, and change her pose.

'So what's happened, mum?'

'And where's Harry? Call him here, I want to greet him.'

'He's not at home,' said Ginny in a most careless manner. 'Had to go to work.'

'So _early_? Ginny, dear –'

'It is that case. Very important, he said,' answered Ginny hastily.

'The one he had to leave you for a week? Where he's been, I wonder?'

'Only for three days, mum. And he's not supposed to tell, you know. Anyways, I don't – '

'But it's very _serious_, don't you see! If Arthur would've gone for a week and I knew nothing, I'd gone _mad_! How could you be so… so… so _indifferent_?'

Ginny clenched her fists and smiled: 'Of course I'm not. And you should calm down, mum, honestly. Harry is not a kid, you know. And he's been an Auror for ten years already. He dealt with hundreds evil wizards and Merlin knows what other dangers. And before that he defeated the most terrible dark mage of the age, _just in the case you forgot_.'

Her last words sounded strangely in the air, and they seemed to affect her mother in a peculiar way.

'Ginny, my love. I didn't want to embarrass you. But I was so worried! Tell me,' Molly dropped her voice, 'Tell me. You and Harry had an argument, right?'

Ginny took a deep breath and then exhaled very slowly.

'No, mum, we'd not. You're mistaken.'

Molly looked at her suspiciously, certainly not convinced.

'I'm your mother. I need to know. Whom could you trust if not me? You had, hadn't you?'

'No we hadn't.'

'I can help you, Ginny, dear – '

'No you _won't_!' and Ginny winced, feeling a sudden fit of sickness.

'Ginny? What's happened? What's wrong with you?'

'I'm fine, mum,' she said, already calm. 'You've just upset me. Those stupid fancies of yours, they're getting on my nerves.'

'But are you well? You've turned so white.'

'Don't worry, I'm fine… So what's that matter you've called for?'

'But you sure that – '

'_Yes_, mum. What is it?'

'Oh, it's about the Anniversary – have you received the invitation already?'

'The Anniversary?' Ginny repeated dully.

'The Great Hogwarts Reopening – it's the ten years anniversary! They're giving a Halloween Ball; all from the former Dumbledore's Army and the Order are invited. The Minister himself will be there.'

'Oh, that's great!' exclaimed Ginny, earnestly trying to sound enthusiastic. 'You and dad are also going?'

'I think I'll decline. George asked me to stay with Mod; it's her first time, you know, and she is a bit nervous. He'll be a very powerful wizard, to be born on All Hallows Eve.'

'_He_? And why not _she_?'

'It's a boy,' said Molly. 'I just know that. George wants it so much. '

'Oh. I see,' said Ginny and fell silent.

'Now call Harry and tell him the happy news. He'll make it up with you on the instant, you'll see. So good bye, dear. I haven't called Ron and Hermione yet.'

'Bye, mum. Send them my regards.'

'Bye, darling.'

Molly's face vanished; the liquid darkened and became perfectly still; but for some time Ginny stayed kneeled before the Cauldron, not moving. Her own face, sad and tired, looked back at her from inside. Ginny forced herself to smile – but turned away immediately, frightened at the attempt.

She wouldn't give up, she thought. She'll be strong. She was one of the best Quidditch players. Now, she is a successful reporter. She was recently named among the prettiest witches in Britain, her picture on the cover of the Witch Weekly. Of course Harry loves her. It's just her imagination. She'll get past it; she'll manage.

Suddenly, a child's cry came from upstairs, and Ginny rushed there at once; all her worries completely forgotten.

oxXxo

It was five thirty in the morning, and the Auror's office in the Ministry was completely empty – except from a single person, Harry himself.

A huge tome lay before him, greasy and tattered as if it had been in constant use for no less than ten years. The materials on the Cold Factory case were indeed very vast. When preparing for his country journey, Harry had already made himself familiar with the most essential of them, but now the tale of misfortunate Archibald Slopey put some of those facts into a new light.

Here, the members of the first Investigation Committee. Two from the Law Enforcement, one from the Magic Accidents, two from the Department of Mysteries – aha! Harry exclaimed silently at the sight of the familiar name – and, at last, two from the newly-made Department of Information. One external expert – somebody with a German surname; probably, the very person who had been promised to the Factory staff as the replacement of late Rosier. Their verdict – criminal negligence… All members seemed to show a perfect unanimity.

But what about those mysterious delays? Harry was positively eager to know the Committee's opinion on them. To his surprise, this factor seemed to have had no influence on the decision. He met some brief mentioning of the 'time deviations' in one of the most technical parchments; but its text was alternated with formulae that were definitely beyond his modest abilities in Higher Mathmagic. Probably, Hermione would have made something out of them, but Harry wasn't sure yet in their importance; and he didn't want to bother his friend with nonsense. Aside from that parchment, another curious document caught his eye; it was the expert evaluation of the project written by that foreign wizard. It was in every respect a remarkable evaluation – aside from a small flaw: in was written completely in German, with no translation supplied.

Harry settled back in his chair and took a large sip of coffee. As for now, it was a dead end.

Then he decided to try a different approach. He began searching for any note mentioning the interrogation under Veritaserum – but also in vain. He noticed, however, that several pages were missing from the case in the part where the supposed transcript of interrogation should have been, as well as in some others. Instead of them, a slip of paper with the black stamp of the Department of Information was stuck inside, with no indication of the reason why the pages had been taken. Nothing again, thought Harry.

Still, he could check the other part of Slopey's tale. Harry flicked several pages back, to examine the transcript of the Factory's Writ-Thing, a device which was registering the details of the production process. At first glance the long rows of numbers and symbols made no sense, and it was precisely the reason Harry had decided to omit the transcript before; but now he forced himself to decipher it. It appeared to be quite easy, to his surprise, as he became adjusted to the outline – and yes, the delay of which Slopey told him was there. Two barrels of Developers, eighteen gallons each… production ordered two nights before… – he flicked through some more pages – yes, here they are, in the list of orders, two sixteen gallon barrels of Developers… Stop. Harry looked again, thinking that he was mistaken – but no, the barrels size did not match.

He urged himself to pause, trying to suppress the growing excitement. It could be just the typist's fault, after all; and he had already imagined all but a world-scale conspiracy. Yet it was indeed something, and something undoubtedly worth checking. Very carefully, he reread the corresponding parts of both documents: from the context, it was impossible to understand whether the mistake had been deliberate. Then Harry began to study the transcript more scrupulously, doubling his attention when it mentioned the delayed orders.

As he looked through the papers, his excitement began to fade: from the twenty six suspicion delays he met so far, only one more was connected with mistake. This time it was the order of Freezers (Harry did not know what they were used for), which were measured in bottles - the size of the bottles was right, but their number differed. Again, it was the discrepancy that could have been a result of a common misprint: forty seven instead of forty one. Both suspicious orders were intended for the Department of Mysteries – as well as good few of others, though.

Harry had been still examining the transcript for further mistakes, when the other Aurors started to arrive. He checked the time – already nine thirty; he did not notice as those four hours fled.

'Hey, mate, you've been sleeping here, or what?'

Harry turned around and saw Ron, his old friend and not-so-old co-worker.

'Woke up at three and could not asleep,' said Harry honestly. 'Why?'

'And you found nothing better than to come here to_ work_? Blimey, I bet Ginny was angry!' Ron laughed and looked at the cover of the case. 'Still the Cold Factory, eh?'

'Yes,' nodded Harry and closed the tome. He didn't want others to look at his papers, not even Ron.

'I'm still somehow not getting it,' said Ron. 'The case is as cold as its name. Why on earth turn it up again?'

'Who knows. Kingsley said that our Department was to hold an inquest; and I took it. Haven't asked why.'

'We could ask Hermione. She's a Lady-Boss, you know. Or that Prefect-Who-Gained-Power, I mean my brother Percy,' sniffed Ron.

Harry smiled: he knew that Ron still could not forgive Percy's supposed attempt to court Hermione seven years ago, when she had just been transferred to the Law Enforcement. Probably, there had been nothing at all (Harry personally thought exactly that); but Ron would become jealous literally of nothing. The idea to ask Hermione, though, was quite plausible.

'And how's Hermione?' Harry said. 'I haven't seen her for quite a while.'

'Not that I am luckier… Still see her only at dinner, and not every day, too.' Behind his friend's smile Harry could see a distinct hint of offence. 'And I thought we would meet more often now when our offices are on the same Level as hers.'

Harry smiled apologetically: 'I think she's got plenty of work, with all those new reorganizations… And she's rising very rapidly, your Hermione.'

'Soon she'll become our boss, just you wait,' Ron nodded. 'She's almost as famous as you now… Or, and Mr Popularity, have you already prepared your speech?'

That last part of the joke Harry did not get: 'Why should I give a speech?'

'_Nobody_ told you? You're joking!' Ron was delighted. 'Of course, the speech for the Halloween Ball at Hogwarts. It's ten years since the school reopened, remember? The Great Anniversary!'

'Well, now I know,' said Harry without too much enthusiasm.

'You're not happy?'

'Let's say I have mixed feelings. To be precise, that speech thing makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.' It was more to it than this, but Harry decided not to tell Ron about it yet.

'Think: Hogwarts, sweet Hogwarts. All our friends will come. And the professors. You know, I really miss our McGonagall. The others too… Man, I even miss that Slytherin, Slughorn!'

The mention of the Head of Slytherin House reminded Harry of the other person he had to speak to, so he interrupted Ron's musings:

'And by the way, Ron – haven't you come across a certain Blaise Zabini recently?'

'That Slytherin bloke from the Department of Mysteries?' wondered Ron. 'Met him several times in the café on Level One. Why?'

'I thought you might know something about him from your and George's business.'

'And what he has to do with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes?'

'Nothing, just a thought… He usually dines in the upper-café, then? Not on Level Seven with everyone?'

The newly refurbished café on Level One was fancied particularly by the high ministry officials.

Ron shrugged his shoulders: 'Why not? A perfect place for a Slytherin climber. Close to the sun and all that.'

'Oh, indeed? Hmm, then I better have lunch there today,' said Harry with a hint of smile in his eyes. 'It's time to come out from the shadows for me too, don't you think?'

* * *

_Next chapter: as you have probably already guessed, the meeting with Blaise…_


	4. Blaise's Business

AN: thank you all who read my story!

_Star Mirage:_ I know, I know it, my friend... But Ginny will live through this fic. As for Harry's feelings for her, I wouldn't be so sure We'll see.

_ShadowDweller: _I was really pleased to know that you are reading this. Don't worry, I will not abandon the other fic. I just need some time to recollect. About the pairings: well, we have canon R/H, H/G - a good point to start. But the feelings of people could (and would) change in the course of time. Some relationships become stronger, some weaker; and the most of them change their nature. Which, of course, doesn't mean that I'll make this fic a pure H/Hr in the end... or H/smb. else.

_This chapter:_ Harry decides to have lunch at the Level One cafe... Where he meets an old friend and also quite a new one.

* * *

**Chapter 4.**** Blaise's Business**

Up to that day, Harry visited Level One only occasionally, when invited by the Minister. And even on those rare occasions, he had a chance to see but a small part of the level, so he had only a vague notion of what was situated there.

But this time, when he came to the security stand, he did not proceed further to the offices for the Minister as he used to, but turned into one of the side passages just before them. At his first attempt, he got the wrong one and soon found himself faced with the heavy metal door, the grey plaque on which said: "The Department of Information". Harry hesitated for a moment, wondering whether it was worthwhile to throw a quick look behind the door, but decided against it: he had better come prepared.

But the second attempt led him just where he wanted: the passage ended with a pumpkin-shaped archway, and something unmistakably resembling a mess hall was seen behind it. Harry entered the café, cautiously checking if his presence had provoked an unwanted attention: he would not call himself unsociable, but this time, he had no desire to exchange polite courtesies with his colleagues. It appeared, luckily, that his worries were for nothing: of the numerous people in the hall, no one showed a slightest interest in his humble person. Relieved, Harry took the tray and started to move slowly with the queue, pretending that he was choosing the dishes, but actually cautiously examining other visitors.

Just as his turn came, he spotted Zabini, who was sitting at the small table in the farthest corner together with some long-haired girl. Harry absentmindedly paid for his meal (he had not even looked what he'd chosen in the end) and directed his steps towards Zabini. His plan was to sit at the next table and talk to the guy at the earliest opportunity.

But as he came alongside that long-haired girl, supposed Zabini's friend, this perfect plot was ruined at once – for the girl appeared to be none other than Hermione.

'Hermione!' he exclaimed, nearly dropping the tray.

'Oh, hi, Harry!' she greeted him, no less surprised and for some reason confused.

Zabini, on the contrary, acted as if in the person of Harry he suddenly met his long-lost brother:

'Ah! _Harry!' _he ejaculated enthusiastically, though Harry had never been on first-name terms with him. 'Hello, mate! It's been ages! Come here, sit with us.'

Slightly bewildered, Harry nevertheless accepted the invitation, moved up a chair and joined their company.

'Thank you, um… _Blaise_,' he said cautiously. 'But are you sure I'm not interrupting –'

'No, of course not!' Zabini answered even before Hermione had a chance to open her mouth. 'Just some work questions, you know; but we've already finished.'

'For the time being,' added Hermione somewhat menacingly, and Harry felt even more uncomfortable.

'So, how's life?' Blaise continued with the same buoyancy. 'How're children? Oh, what's this thing you're eating? A new diet, eh?' he jabbered without a pause.

For the first time, Harry looked at his plate and saw a sickening jumble of something green and slimy.

'A diet? Not unless he's a dead man,' said Hermione with a notable sarcasm; it was clear that she was still a bit angry. 'Just for your concern, Harry, it's the Cemetery Moss Stew - a real delicacy. For haunts, that is.'

'Hey, Harry, are you still alive?' asked Zabini jokingly and clapped him on the shoulder, as if verifying. 'Or are you haunting us?'

'I was very much alive last time I've checked,' Harry answered, already a little tired from this farce. 'To say the truth, I was going to have an algae salad, but then –'

'An algae salad? I would not recommend it, Harry,' Hermione said in that bossy manner of hers. 'Let's go, I'll help you choose. I'm leaving anyway.'

'But I need to have a few words with Blaise,' Harry answered. He had a strong suspicion that Zabini would change his over-friendly attitude towards him as soon as Hermione would leave.

'I'll wait for you; what else could I do?' said Blaise with an enormous smile.

So, Harry and Hermione left him; and Harry took this chance to throw away the ill-fated plate of the mouldy stew.

'I didn't know that you were friends with Zabini,' Hermione said in an undertone.

Harry waved his hand indefinitely. He decided not to venture into the detailed explanation: too many people around, and he did not have that much time. Besides, there was something important he needed to ask her.

'I'll explain you later,' he said hastily. 'Listen, Hermione, I have to ask you of a favour. It's this case, probably you know – the Cold Factory one.'

'Of course I know; we've just –' then she stopped abruptly and continued after a pause. 'So what is it?'

'I found some interesting documents in the first Committee materials, but I couldn't decipher them. Too much math for poor me. And also there is a report in German –'

'You copied them?' she said disapprovingly, looking at the papers he withdrew from the pocket. 'It's against the rules, Harry, you know that.'

'What a big deal,' he said in a low voice, watching as she quickly hid the papers in her sleeve.

'You don't understand. It's not a joke, Harry. If the Department of Information gets to know, you'll have a big problem,' she whispered angrily. 'They are already... Anyway, why not order an official expertise?'

'I need the opinion of someone whom I can trust,' Harry replied and looked straight into her eyes.

She glared back rather obstinately, but then, not able to withstand his gaze, dropped her eyes. Harry understood that she was almost ready to give up.

'Hermione. Really don't have much time now, or I'd have told you everything. But it's a very strange case. Something just does not add up here; I can _sense_ it,' he said, moving closer and lowering his voice to a whisper. Then he took her hand and wrung it hard. '_I need you to help me_.'

A rather tense silence followed.

'All right, Harry, I'll see what I can do,' she answered at last.

'Thank you, Hermione,' he paused for a moment and then let her go.

oxXxo

As Harry returned to Zabini, the latter was about to finish his dessert.

'More algae, Potter?' he said archly, raising his eyes to Harry.

'Shut up, Zabini; you owe me,' Harry cut him short without ceremony.

'That's the truth I can't deny,' he agreed. 'You saved me from an encounter rather unpleasant. Which still does not imply, of course, that with you I'll have a pleasant one.'

'That depends on your attitude, Zabini,' Harry said almost graciously. 'I usually prefer to avoid formalities when I can. But if you'd like a conversation more official – well, that can easily be arranged.'

'Hmm. Upon a long and heavy consideration, I'd rather not,' Zabini answered at ease. 'So, how can I help you, my new friend?'

'You work in the Department of Mysteries, the Division of Time,' Harry began.

'That's a statement, not a question. But I am. I'm the boss there, in fact.'

'You're the Head of the Division?' Harry looked at him with doubt.

'Since I'm the only person in the Division left – no surprise in that,' Zabini gave a short laugh.

'So all operations with Liquid Time there are authorized by you?'

'Well, when there _is_ Liquid Time to operate – yes. The only problem, we have none at the moment. No Liquid Time, no Time-Turners. The Cold Factory has blown up – so no more Liquid Time. As for Time-Turners, the rumours have it that the Great and Unconquerable Harry Potter himself had attended to the matter once... Haven't heard about that, by chance?'

'You better keep to the point, _Blaise_,' Harry interrupted. He did not like that not-quite-gentle a hint about their battle at the Department of Mysteries during his fifth year at Hogwarts.

'The point is that I have the best job in the Ministry, I think. Even better than those folks from the Centaur Liaisons Office. I'm simply _enjoying my time_. Not that I have anything else to do, anyway.'

'Oh, indeed?' Harry was seemingly all astonishment. 'But weren't there alternative sources of Liquid Time? They had to produce it somehow before the Factory was built. I would have expected that this is what your job should be about.'

'Well, technically, yes,' said Zabini reluctantly. 'Only that we never made the Liquid Time themselves in the Division. And in the other Divisions they did not either. Because, you see, no one knows how to make it anymore. Don't stare at me as if I'm Merlin reborn. It's your doing, after all. With all that _mugglefication_ it seems that we'll soon be forgetting how to hold a wand, not to mention handling more complex magic. Look at this fancy café we're sitting in now. A dernier cry, isn't it. They've told me it's designed exactly as some muggle fast-food restaurant. No magic – and they are even proud of this. I think they simply have forgotten how to perform a decent spell. And it's everywhere, Potter. Magic science is clearly falling into decay. You believe any of recent Hogwarts graduates who are capable at least of _Vingardium Leviosa_ have shown a slightest desire to come and work here? Not a single one. Even look at those who were in Hogwarts with us. Where are they? Where is Granger-the-bookworm? Has she chosen the scientific career? Quite the opposite; she is in Law Enforcement, inventing brand-new mugglish laws. Where is Patil from Ravenclaw? Gone for good; she's in India now, digging for antiques or whatever. Ah, what a girl; I've always had a soft spot for her. Where's my old friend Theo Nott? Well, you know where he is. Still waters run deep. I bet old Slughorn is whipping the cat now; not having the wits to invite him to his Slug Club back then. And it's the same with all the clever ones. For the past seven years, the top five of the Ravenclaw class go to work for Gringotts Investments straight after graduation, you knew that? Only a person as utterly talentless as myself would decide to work in science these days.

'So no surprise that our Department of Mysteries slowly turns into a mob of charlatans,' Zabini continued with the same look of a musing decadent. 'And you are wondering why I'm the Head of the Division. You just haven't seen the other Heads. What a waxworks show! They used to do something useful only in the Experimental Charms, when Rosier was still alive, perhaps. But now, since they were reformed and got kicked out of here, it's out of question.'

'And why they were reformed?' Harry said quickly, glad that he could stop that waterfall of words.

'Why the entire Ministry keeps reforming? Why the Sun is rising? Why the birds are singing? The answer is... _I don't know_, Potter! Maybe you should ask your beautiful friend Granger about this. You two seem pretty close, the way you talk and all that.'

Harry bestowed a heavy look upon Zabini. 'So are you saying there is no other source of Liquid Time at all?' he inquired.

'There is a source – an original source I'd say, some sort of a well – but the amount of Liquid Time we could have from it is very scanty. It's barely sufficient for the vital purposes of the entire Wizarding Society. So the faster they'll build a new factory, the better. And, before you asked – no, you can't see this well. The access is heavily restricted. I think that in the entire Ministry, only three or four persons are granted with the permission to enter there. The risk is very high, you see.'

Unfortunately for poor Zabini, he was clearly not among those precious few. As for now, it seemed wise to postpone the further investigation of that subject, so Harry changed the topic:

'And what you can tell me about your work in the first Committee of Investigation after the Cold Factory incident?'

Zabini shrugged his shoulders: 'Ah, that one. I was invited just because of my job title. The factory was producing Liquid Time, so there must be a guy from the Division with the same name, isn't it obvious? They didn't care that I knew about all that mechanics no more than, let's say, of the history of Goblin Uprisings. The other one, the guy from the Experimental Charms, he's the man you need. He even understood what that German shrimp had been expounding.'

'So you even have no opinion on your verdict?' Harry specified.

'I just put my name on the parchment, that's it. But the case was clear as noonday. That German guy just looked at the Pensieve with the poor bloke's memories and then started swearing like a drunken troll. Even I got the message, although I know not a word in German.'

'And everybody else just agreed with him?'

'Let me think,' Zabini frowned. 'Well, not that at once, but finally –'

'So there _was _a split in opinions, after all.'

'Well, that guy from the Charms, he was insisting that we should investigate the other possibilities… One of those Ravenclaw types, you know, boring to death. Even made some calculations of his own – but the others didn't listen to him that much. And then, after the Department of Information arranged the second interrogation of the suspect, even he gave up.'

'Anything unusual about that interrogation?' Harry tensed.

'I don't know; they had it in their office.'

'I see,' said Harry. Blaise's words implied that the other members of Committee may not even know that Veritaserum was used, let alone not authorized its usage. This, again, brought up the question of the Department of Information's role…

But he still needed to finish with Zabini first, and so he moved on to the most crucial part of his questioning:

'Hmm, and didn't anybody wonder about the last order that was in production that night?'

'What order?' asked Zabini with a look too much innocent for not being made-up.

'Developers. For the Department of Mysteries. Two barrels.'

'So what's wrong with them? We usually use them for magic photography. And for… some other matters.'

Aha, caught him, Harry thought.

'And the Freezers?' he proceeded as if incidentally.

'What?'

'The Freezers,' repeated Harry patiently. 'What are they used for?'

'We preserve the materials with them, some old parchments or the similar stuff. I heard that some had tried to use them for binding seals on the magical contracts, but I'm not sure. A stupid thing to do anyway; a common blood is much better for the task…'

'And these are their only uses?' asked Harry with a clear scepsis. 'You are trying to make me believe that those Developers and Freezers couldn't be used for some other purpose? You better _tell me the truth!_'

Blaise flinched and withdrew his eyes. For several moments he stared at the table surface blankly, his knuckles whitened.

'Well…'

'Well?' Harry demanded.

'I know only what _we_ are using these things for,' said Zabini carefully. 'But there are all those queer fellows in Knockturn Alley and the weird stuff they make… I have nothing to do with them, of course…'

'Nothing, indeed,' agreed Harry pleasantly. 'And what those nasty characters could possibly do with Liquid Time?'

'Why would _I_ know about that, of all people?' Zabini exclaimed in outrage. 'I've never been even near that _Borgin&Burke_'s!'

'I never stated that you were,' said Harry. 'It is of no significance to me at all. I'm much more interested in other things rather than the places you've visited in the course of your life. For example, I would be pleased to know where those evil, evil evildoers obtained Liquid Time from. With the Cold Factory as the only source and you as the one supervising any deliveries to the Ministry.'

'Wh-what are you driving at, Potter?' Zabini's eyes narrowed, his easy manner gone completely.

'_You_ tell me that, Zabini. And don't forget about the mysterious size-shifting barrels of Developers and the vanishing bottles of Freezers.'

'You have no proof,' said Zabini quietly.

'Quite the contrary, my dear friend Blaise. But haven't I said that I prefer to avoid formalities?' Harry answered softly. 'Unless you'll keep insisting, of course. Or unless it appears that it is youwho is guilty of what happened with the Cold Factory.'

'The Factory couldn't have exploded because of me, I swear!'

'Maybe; but you are not sure,' said Harry. 'You know nothing about all that boring mechanics, remember?'

'What do you want from me, Potter?' almost moaned Zabini.

'I propose you a deal. You tell me to whom you were selling the Liquid Time. You tell me what they used it for. You'll answer any other questions that I might have in future. And I will keep silent about that little business of yours. That's all.'

'How could I be sure that you won't fool me?'

'You'll have my word, Zabini.'

'Your _word_? Bah!'

'It happened so that never tell lies,' said Harry as calmly as ever, and Blaise involuntarily cast a glance at the pale but still noticeable letters on the back of Harry's hand. 'Nor do I tolerate a lie from you, Zabini. Believe me, I'll see through it at once. I'm quite experienced in that.'

Zabini sneered, but now a distinct impression of fear was seen behind the scowl.

'You know, Potter – you are worse than You-Know-Who himself,' and he tried to force a laugh. 'And they say you were just lucky… That Malfoy is an idiot if he thinks so.'

'I wouldn't be worse than Voldemort if I weren't lucky,' said Harry, rising. 'And I presume it means we have a deal.'

Zabini accepted his loss in silence; he was too dispirited to say anything.

'Then bye for now, Blaise. Maybe I'll visit you again in a couple of days. I'm extremely curious to see your work-place.'

'You are always welcome,' muttered Zabini, and Harry had no doubt that Blaise was meaning exactly the opposite.

* * *

_Next chapter we'll pay a visit to Borgin&Burke's... And please, review! The fic can't be that awful... __I hope..._


	5. The Grim Guest

_AN._ Thank you, Star Mirage and ShadowDweller! Yes, I do like some 'deeper stuff'. But it can't be understood till the very end, how much deeper it is ;) The same regarding the implied references to CIA or KGB - clever thought, however! - but maybe the Department is harmless, eh? We still don't know.

_This chapter:_ The promised tour to Borgin&Burke's. And not all the visitors are alive…

* * *

**Chapter 5. ****The Grim Guest**

About the middle of October, clear and warm days of fair weather came to an end, giving place to a sequence of long and heavy rains.

By that time, the usual flow of customers at Diagon Alley had noticeably thinned out. Not a sign of everyday crowds anymore; and very rarely an occasional wizard or witch could be seen crossing the street here and there, wandering around the florid variety of shop's displays and looking even more solitary and estranged under the protection of the Umbrella Charm.

Definitely, Diagon Alley was a pitiful sight on the nasty days like those.

For Knockturn Alley shop-keepers, however, the days of bad weather were usually the best. What picturesque characters appeared in the city then, having emerged from the deepest corners of Wizarding World! Werewolves, spuriously shy, gathering together as full moon approached in a desperate hope to resist the temptation; vampires, muffled up in long dark cloaks, watching careless passers-by with their hungry eyes; old ragged witches, who, judging from their appearances, had never heard of the Society for the Reformation of Hags; ancient warlocks, looking no less squalid, their hair and beards smelling irresistibly of moist earth; or, somehow, even luxuriously dressed gentlemen and ladies with that peculiar air of gloomy mystery about them – indeed, the variety of Knockturn Alley visitors was really astonishing.

Alas, all that dark splendour belonged to the times past. Now, even the most terrible storms and cloud-bursts could not contribute much to the number of costumers, and many prominent Knockturn Alley merchants were forced to go out of business these days, for there was no demand for the goods they could offer. The alley, dismal and sombre even in its best times, now clearly showed all the signs of decay. Most of the shops were shut, their windows boarded up; several of the oldest ones even began to fall apart.

Only one shop seemed to have avoided the common fate. The biggest among its neighbours, it stood there, solid and proud as ever, its black windows clear and intact, its door freshly-painted in an appropriate shadow of ashen grey, its doorknob industriously polished. The large metal sign "Borgin and Burke's Artefacts" squeaked in the wind terribly; but that sound was clearly a part of the thoroughly cultivated sinister image of the establishment.

Inside, the shop looked exactly as it did five, or ten, or twenty years ago. Words 'dark', 'dusty', 'sombre', 'deterrent' could perfectly describe its interior; and the appearance of the shopkeeper himself added greatly to the general impression. Mr Borgin, an aged man, stooping from the constant servility, was usually seen at the counter. On rare occasions when he had to depart to the back room – perhaps, for one of the more delicate negotiations – he was relieved by the shop assistant, a nameless man of indefinite age, resembling the owner as much as his shadow, from the same thatch of oily hair covering the eyes to the round-shouldered back.

Mr Borgin's health was not so good lately, so he rarely appeared in the shop, spending much of the time in his bedroom upstairs; and the silent assistant was bestowed with the honour of cajoling the infrequent customers and getting the shiny Galleons out of them - the more the better.

Not that he had much to do, however. Even Borgin's constant clients hadn't come in months, and his suppliers also seemed to neglect their duties. The one who showed up last week brought nothing but junk – the miniature bronze Dream-catcher was the only thing that was worthy to look at.

Unfortunately, there was no hope that the situation would improve. On the contrary, it was getting even worse. A number of the usual Mr Borgin partners, who were supplying him with the most quality goods, were recently arrested during a sudden Auror raid. No chance it could be an accident, Mr Borgin said to his assistant, for those 'servants of greater good' definitely knew where to look. As if _Borgin&Burke_'s misfortunes had not been enough already, he added grievingly.

But that day, the sad solitude of the honourable merchant was to be broken.

It was already well past lunchtime, when a bunch of finger bones, serving as a door bell, clanked, waking the seemingly dozy shop-assistant. A moment later, a pale young man in a long black cloak with silver trimmings entered the shop. The assistant bowed, muttering the greetings, and assigned a house elf to take over the visitor's wet cloak.

The young man, a blond whose rather nice pointed features were distorted with a scornful expression, threw a brief disdainful glance at the assistant, ignoring his respectful 'How do you do, Mr Malfoy?'

'And where is old Borgin?' he demanded.

'May be I would be able to help you, Mr Malfoy?' bowing even lower, the assistant said.

'I never have my negotiations with servants,' Malfoy answered coldly. 'Go fetch him, and quickly.'

The assistant obeyed in silence and disappeared behind a small door in the corner, from where, in a less than a minute, the owner himself emerged.

'How do you do, Mr Malfoy,' he said in a croaking voice, 'It is such a pleasure to meet you. What's brought you here today? Are you buying or selling?'

'As if you don't know,' Malfoy snapped. 'Selling, of course.'

'Selling,' Mr. Borgin's lips widened in a rapacious smile. 'As you wish, Mr Malfoy. Would you please follow me then…' Then he turned to the assistant: 'Hey, boy, close the shop and see that no one will interrupt us.'

All that procedure, no doubt, was already familiar to Malfoy and even bored him to stiff. Nevertheless, he followed it not without a certain pleasure – probably, because every detail in the shop-keeper's attitude was designed as if to emphasize Mr Malfoy's significance.

Five minutes later the owner and his guest were sitting comfortably in a surprisingly cosy back room of _Borgin&Burke_'s, enjoying the fine elf-made wine, a rarity nowadays, several bottles of which had been kept by Mr. Borgin for the special occasions like that.

'So, is your spouse in good health, may I inquire?' asked Mr. Borgin obsequiously.

'She's fine,' nodded Malfoy curtly and took a sip of wine from the ancient wine-glass.

'And the young master Scorpius?'

'Couldn't be better,' said Malfoy indifferently and then immediately proceeded: 'But let's go without ceremony. You are curious to see what I've brought today, aren't you, old man?'

Mr Borgin gave a small respectful nod.

'Here,' Malfoy took out a large ornate box as if from the middle of the air.

Mr Borgin, watching his hands narrowly, could not suppress a disapproval sigh.

'What is it?' Malfoy demanded sharply.

'It is extremely unwise to use diminishing spells with such rare and valuable magic objects, if I may say so,' Mr Borgin said. 'The damage could be irreversible.'

'Really? Didn't know that,' said Malfoy with a slight sign of worry. 'But where should I keep it, for Merlin's sake? Hold it in my hands all the way here?'

True to the latest fashion, Draco Malfoy was dressed in a muggle suit – a very elegant and expensive one, no doubt, but definitely not providing the possibility to hide something in its folds, unlike the good old robes.

'I think they're all right. Go, check them,' he moved his hand imperatively.

Mr Borgin did as he was told and very carefully opened the precious box. As he looked at its contents, his expression remained absolutely impenetrable. Then, moving very slowly and accurately, he took out the first item; it was a small and fragile white dagger, covered in indecipherable writings. Mr Borgin brought the dagger very close to his face, turning it from side to side. After a minute of examination, he put it back with the same care.

'A fine piece of work,' he said at last, as if not noticing Malfoy's impatience. 'Carved out from a single Unicorn horn. A very old one.'

'Yea, it was grandfather's. Engraved by twelve virgins, he said,' Malfoy gave almost a girlish giggle. 'For a true unicorn binding. Cost him a fortune.'

Mr Borgin sighed: 'Alas, the prices for ceremonial weapons are not as high these days as they used to be. No one hunts unicorns any more.'

'But surely it's worth more than a thousand,' said Malfoy.

'A thousand?' Mr Borgin was too experienced a salesman to let himself sound openly sceptical, but Malfoy made no mistake interpreting his intonation.

'Well then… Nine hundreds?'

'Unfortunately, no more than four, Mr Malfoy.' Borgin shook his head ruefully.

'_Four_ hundreds?' Draco was furious. 'It's some kind of a joke, isn't it? My granddad paid for that –'

Mr Borgin stopped him with an apologetic smile: 'I completely understand your feelings, sir. Believe me, I even share them. But what can I do? It is the time that is so unfavourable to you, Mr Malfoy, not I. Who knows, maybe in a fifty years it would cost ten times as much. But as for today…' he sighed. 'I could buy it from you for four hundred and fifty, but I'm afraid that's a final price.'

Malfoy settled back in his chair, frowning discontentedly.

'Fine then, let's see the rest of the stuff,' he said at last.

The next thing that Mr Borgin withdrew from the box was a large signet ring with a crimson stone.

'Watch out, it's poisonous,' said Malfoy somewhat proudly. 'One of my ancestors killed the entire family of blood traitors with it, as legend has it.'

'Hmm, I don't think it's poisonous,' answered Borgin, examining the ring suspiciously. 'Once, it was, no doubt; but now it's a piece of jewellery, nothing more. Its historical value, however, is still rather high. It originally belonged to Steyne's family, not Malfoy's, in case you are interested, sir.'

'Did it? So it is not so worthy since it's not Malfoy's?' asked Malfoy with trouble.

Borgin shrugged his shoulders: 'Some three hundred, I think.'

'You are robbing me blind, Borgin, but –,' Malfoy broke off with a sigh. 'Continue. There were spectacles over there; let's see what you'll say on these.'

Borgin took the plain round-eyed glasses from the almost empty box. One glass was missing, the other one – cracked.

'And I told you not to use the diminishing charm, sir,' he said reprovingly. 'I'm afraid that nothing can be done here.'

'No, it can't be!' exclaimed Malfoy, his face fell as he looked at the broken spectacles. 'They're supposed to be the famous glasses of True Sight! Grandfather prized them above all. Never even let me touch them!'

Borgin thought that this grandfather was quite right is his anxiety. 'Well, now you can keep them as a memory, sir,' he said too politely for Malfoy to notice an irony behind his words.

'So they're beyond repair?' the young man asked with disappointment.

'I'm afraid so, sir.'

Malfoy waved his pale well-groomed hand with an almost theatrical gesture: 'Then I'll better let you have them as a token of my gratitude. To round it off, for a hundred and fifty, eh? You could put a new glass into them and sell to some foolish muggle-lover. Or even better, you can say that it is the favourite glasses of the great and mighty Harry Potter which he wore during the Battle of Hogwarts,' and Malfoy laughed at his own wittiness.

Borgin did not answer; for, to his opinion, this proposal was not even worth a comment. Besides, he had already switched his attention to the last thing Malfoy had brought – a medium-sized glass ball with some scenery inside it.

'It must be a Soothsaying Sphere of some kind,' Malfoy said. 'Though I never attempted to use it. Foretelling is just a waste of time, I think.'

Mr Borgin was still looking through the ball, holding it against the fire-light.

'No,' he said at last. 'It's not a Soothsaying Sphere. It's just a… snow-globe. A toy.'

'A _toy_? And nothing more?' Malfoy was eager to catch the old merchant lying.

But Borgin was firm in his verdict: 'Yes, sir, a toy. Such snow globes were very popular among children in forties of the last century. Look, this one contains a model of Hogwarts inside. A nice piece of charm-work, no doubt; but there is nothing special about it.'

'Who would have thought that my granddad was so sentimental!' Malfoy sniffed. 'A memory of Hogwarts, just you think! It's probably something from his school years: he graduated just in the beginning of forties. Maybe his girlfriend's gift. What an old fool.'

'Were those your grandfather Abraxas's belongings, sir, am I right?' inquired Mr Borgin, rather taken aback with such an exhibition of family honour.

'Yes. Not the one Malfoy's family should be proud of,' Draco said. 'Went over to Grindelwald _just before_ he was defeated. Wasn't it the most stupid thing to do? So _inadequate,_ not being able to tell which side is winning.'

'Farsight is a precious quality, no doubt,' Mr Borgin agreed. 'How fortunate that the rest of your noble family was blessed with it.'

Once again, Malfoy, being too full of himself, did not catch the irony.

'Otherwise we wouldn't talk now, Borgin,' he sneered. 'And you would nave missed the opportunity to buy all those nice things from me. Which reminds me that you still have to pay me for them, you old fox.'

And with that, the negotiation was over. The dagger, the ring and the broken glasses passed into the possession of Mr Borgin for a total sum of eight hundred galleons. He indeed added fifty galleons for the eye-glasses, as Malfoy said, 'to round it up'. For such a favour, Malfoy even let him have the old Hogwarts snow-globe just for free.

As always, Mr Borgin personally saw his honourable guest to the door, constantly smiling and bowing till Malfoy disappeared from sight. Then, he turned to the counter and put the box with his newly acquired possessions on it, sneering gloatingly.

'So it was a successful negotiation, wasn't it, sir?' asked the assistant.

Mr Borgin did not answer at once; he opened the box, took a small crystal globe out of it and began to examine it very carefully. For a moment, the assistant's eyes flashed strangely from under the thatch of thick hair as he saw the globe, but, except for this strange glance, he did not give away any more sights of his interest.

And even this sudden sight of curiosity avoided Mr Borgin attention completely. He was trying to make out the details of the scenery inside the snow-globe, but his poor eyesight was seemingly betraying him. 'Hogwarts, sweet Hogwarts,' he mumbled. 'All you need to stay with me forever is just the glass of Time, he-he.'

After a minute or two, Mr Borgin roused himself and switched his attention to the humble assistant.

'What did you say, boy? The negotiation? Oh, it was very much successful, yes,' he said with a satisfied grin and hid the glass ball in one of his pockets. 'Put this to the display,' he added then, passing over the unicorn dagger. 'It's safe to leave it in the open moonlight. And after that, you may go.'

'Sir?' repeated the assistant with bewilderment.

'I let you have a free evening today. What's wrong with you? Not that you should complain, boy, the way I treat you here. So go now. I'll shut everything myself. And don't you be late tomorrow; I have errands for you.'

Much as the assistant might be reluctant to leave, there was nothing he could do: it was impossible to object the direct order of Mr Borgin, who did not tolerate any disobedience. So, he departed without further questions.

The old shop-keeper, however, would be surprised to learn that his always dull and silent errand boy in fact had not left as he had been ordered. Having moved away to a considerable distance from the shop, when he could be sure that Mr Borgin was not watching anymore, he stopped. After that, he checked if he was alone at the street, took out a folded cloak from his large crumpled bag and put in on.

It was a rather special cloak, for it gave protection not from the cold October rain, as one would expect, and even not from the chilly wind – but instead from the human sight. To have it simple, it was the Invisibility Cloak.

Hidden under it, Harry Potter, 'the poor shop-assistant', could return to _Borgin&Burke_'s completely unnoticed.

oxXxo

Mr Borgin had his mind still occupied with the contents of the precious box, so he had not noticed how the door opened slightly and then closed again.

'Are you sure they can't be repaired,' he mocked in a low voice. 'What an idiot. Not having even half his late father's brains. And_ far _not half his riches anymore. What he'll do after he sells all his heirlooms? And this is happening very soon, based on what he brought me today. Not the first family that dies out in such a shame, however. Hey, I sound as if I regret. I'm getting too old, way too old.'

'And way too careless,' a cold voice behind him interrupted.

Mr Borgin shut the box and turned around sharply. However, as he recognized the newcomer, his face tensed out at once.

'You should not have sneaked up on me like that! I didn't want you here before midnight. I haven't even drawn a proper pentagram.'

The late guest, a small grey-headed wizard in old-fashioned robes, moved silently to the shop-owner:

'I have plenty of time these days. Only, I'm afraid, not enough patience. Even for visiting such a dearest friend as my old companion – you, Borgin.'

The light from a single candle was rather dim, but it still allowed to make out that the strange guest, who was calling Mr Borgin his companion, was half-transparent.

'It's all in the past life, Burke,' Borgin muttered. 'You're but a ruin today.'

'This is certainly an over-exaggeration. But the night is cold, I got tired on the way here, and I was looking forward to spending the evening in a somewhat cosier place,' said Burke with a dispassionate smile.

'Then move ahead,' said Borgin. 'The back room is well heated. But I haven't expected you so early, as I've said. And don't you hope that I will waste my elfish wine on you: since you came not through the pentagram, you can't enjoy the taste anyway.'

Burke's ghost moved in silence towards the door, and very soon two companions, one dead and one alive, were sitting at the fire in the very room Mr Borgin had received Draco Malfoy just an hour ago.

'The light is flickering,' said the ghost of Burke, making the weird sniffing sounds. 'There is someone else in the house, and his thoughts are heavy.'

'Leave it,' said Borgin wearily. 'Gone is the time when someone was trying to spy on us. Old de Perrin is dead, and the Vesper brothers are gone, and Matilde-the-Hag never had enough nerve to stand against us. And she is out of business anyway. We've outlived all our competitors, Burke. I think we've even outlived our clients. If you've ever seen what happened to the Malfoys! The head of the family is nothing but a muggle puppet. He came here today; full of conceit, selling the last remnants of his heirlooms. He didn't even know, in his ignorance, what he had in his hands! The Steyne's signet ring, _the Steyne_'s I mean – he thought it was just some poisonous trinket! And Steynes were related to Gaunts themselves – but that youngster didn't even know that. Such a disgrace; he's a shame to his name.'

'Old Count Steyne would certainly not be pleased with it, if he were alive,' whispered Burke. 'But I've seen much worse fates. The Black family just disappeared into nothingness, their house empty and coming to ruin. The Glasses are all muggles by now, they don't even remember what they were. And no man has ever seen such a squalor and disgrace in which the House of Gaunt fell,' he ended with dark solemnity.

'The best of us are dying, generation after generation,' nodded Borgin gloomily, sipping the wine. 'No wonder that magic craft is being neglected. Of older ones, only Ollivander has left now. He's still trying to teach his nephew, but the boy just doesn't have the flair for the thing. And the old man knows. I understand him: I know what it is like, to be the last one.'

'In the end, it is easier than you think,' said Burke in his chilly inhuman voice. 'From some point in your life, the most of your fiends, and your enemies, and beloved ones, and hated ones are already there. So it's like _coming to_, not _going from_.'

Borgin mused for a moment on these words. 'And yet you did not pass,' he said at last.

'I did not,' Burke agreed. 'This shop was my life. It still is. Why would I come here every month otherwise?'

Only after some time, a reply came: 'And I thought because you distrusted me?'

'That too.'

A pause again.

'With every new day, it's harder and harder for me to bear,' said Borgin with a sigh. 'I feel as if it's getting colder day by day. Even the air is empty and dull, as if I'm trying to breathe the void. It's like a great chill is coming upon us; a chill that will wipe all us down. And I just sit there, in my empty shop, and hope that it will miss me, though I know it's not happening. And then sometimes I go for a walk to a Diagon Alley, and watch the people there. And I look into the children's eyes. And what do you think? They are empty, _ever _empty,' Borgin finished in a sinister half-voice. 'I see them take their wands and wave them, and they do the spells, and they know a plenty of them – but there is no more magic in that than in the tricks of the trained monkey.'

'This is what he meant when he forewarned us,' commented Burke somewhat obscurely.

'But we chose not to listen. The true magic and the muggle tricks can't live together. Those fools in the Ministry believed that it would only enrich us, that it would give us a new experience. I do not dislike muggles by themselves. But water is good as far as it remains water; and earth is good as far as it remains earth. Bring them together – and you obtain nothing but mud. They treat the magic as if it's a muggle science; even in Hogwarts they see no difference. No wonder that our children grow blind to see it. But the magic is alive; life is the very essence of it. The one who forgets it will end as a master of dead things, and no more than that.'

A soft rustle came from the chair were Burke was sitting, but he did not say a word.

'And that's what they had with the Cold Factory,' Borgin continued. 'They killed the magic with their metal hands, they stripped it of its soul, and had not even noticed. They wanted to get too much for a price too little. They were punished justly.'

'They didn't understand the nature of the Time,' Burke agreed, his whisper-voice passionless as always. 'But only a few do.'

'Yes. They use it as a mere drug to cloud their minds, as in those Happy Hour Potions you used to brew. They would live a single hour in their mind thousands times, till they die; those petty creatures! Or they would turn back the life of the unborn, or meddle with their rouges and powder, to remain forever young in their vanity, or pour it into the drinks of their enemies, for them to forget their thoughts… I mixed up many recipes here, in this very shop; so I know it. So wretched are those uses, so shallow. I was even glad when that factory was demolished, even if it almost ruined me. I'm glad that they are to suffer without it. Maybe, they'll come to senses at last.'

To that, Burke answered with a dry wisdom of a truly dead man: 'You still have too much life left in you, my old friend, and it gives you hope. But I could see clearer. I see what comes, and I see it because it has already come. You should be happy that they are so ignorant; because in their merry ignorance, they will pass quietly, and their end will be painless. Better go in silence, and not have anybody to grief on your grave, believe me.'

Borgin burst into laughing, and it was an ominous mixture of an obstinacy and despair:

'No, Burke, I will not give up so easily. I will live to see what comes. And I think that this Malfoy came here not by chance; maybe, the hand of fate was guiding him. He sold me Abraxas's Glasses of True Sight, no less. You told me that Abraxas Malfoy had refused to part with them even for a fortune. And I got them – imagine! – for fifty Galleons. The young fool broke them, as you see – I was ready to kill him! – but then I thought there might be still hope. One glass could be repaired. If only I had but a tiny flask of Liquid Time! But if I don't find anything, I will use the liquid from this Hogwarts snow-globe. A real pity to do it, for it is perfectly made – you can see for yourself. But a price should be paid for everything, so –'

'I usually restrain myself from any advices, but today I'll break the habit. And I tell you not to repair the Glasses, and not to break the globe,' said Burke. 'Nothing will come of it.'

'Why? You want this toy for yourself? As that embroidered belt two months ago?'

'No, it's not like that.' Burke answered. 'You'll keep it. But no need to destroy it.'

'By Merlin, why?'

'Now, dwelling with the dead, I see things differently. That's why I can't be fooled with counterfeit items – I simply see what feeling has been put into making. And I say to you – there's more to this toy that you can imagine. It is unwise to destroy what you do not understand. That's one reason to do as I've said.'

'Hmm, is there some enchantment I haven't noticed?' Borgin winced suspiciously over the snow-globe. 'A curse of some sort? Then why I don't sense anything?'

'Because you are blind to those things, as I was once. All that I can tell you that this trinket was made with a passion to match,' said Burke impassibly. 'But I do not insist. You decide what to do with it. I'll only give you my second reason and after that, I shall go. I came so early merely because I wanted to forewarn you.'

'About this toy? This is ridiculous!' Borgin laughed.

'That too. But mainly about that _your time is running out, Borgin_. This is what I came to say. And this was my second reason. Now, farewell.'

That message left a definite unease in the air, mainly because it was delivered seemingly all of a sudden; and Borgin gasped, as if not having enough air to breathe.

To his credit be it said, he recollected rather quickly; probably, because somewhere deep in his heart he already knew the truth that Burke had told him.

'And how long do I have to stay?' he asked at last, softer than ever.

Burke's silhouette was hardly visible now. But his reply came very clear, though quiet:

'Of that, I have little knowledge. But I tell you this: Next time, it's you who'll be visiting, not I.'

And with that, he dissolved completely.

oxXxo

Just three days after, old Borgin, the owner of infamous '_Borgin&Burke_'s, was found dead in his shop. To all appearances, death came to him in his sleep, as his grim face cleared and became unusually peaceful. All his belongings seemed to be on their proper places, as well as a rather considerable sum of money in his safe. Still, the one person who could have confirmed it, Borgin's assistant, was nowhere to be found.

But, since nobody had ever paid attention to that utterly insignificant person, his disappearance had gone unnoticed.

* * *

_Next chapter we'll see the much anticipated Halloween Ball in Hogwarts... _

_And, please, review! It means so much for me..._


	6. The Halloween Ball

_AN. _Traditional thanks to my reviewers, ShadowDweller and Star Mirage. Yes, Harry is a good Auror, I think; and he is quite smart and sometimes cunning. I hope I'll write him IC, because it's rather important for the story to make sense later.

_This chapter_: Harry reflects on his investigation and then departs to Hogwarts, where he finds himself entangled in a web of symbolism.

* * *

**Chapter 6****. The Halloween Ball**

It was by no means a proper way to end an undercover work, thought Harry.

Had he known that the time was running out, he would have certainly precipitated the events. He should have got out all the necessary facts from Borgin and then, after obliviating him as the procedure required, disappeared. Well, he was forced to disappear anyway, but under the circumstances most unfavourable, not having learned what he needed.

The conversation between two companions was, of course, still helpful to some extent – even though it added new questions rather than answered those he already had. He succeeded in discovering some additional obscure uses of Liquid Time, true; but that knowledge could not help him find out the real cause of factory destruction. Moreover, it seemed that the darkest scum of society, hanging around Knockturn Alley, were in fact the people least interested in the tragedy, for it deprived them of quite a profitable business. He was not there to interrogate them personally, but his fellow Aurors did a good job, no doubt, questioning all those shady dealers who were arrested after Zabini had given them away to Harry. Still, in the end, he was left with the firm belief that 'my dear friend Blaise' and his petty swindlers had nothing to do with what had happened at the Factory. There must be another party involved – but as to its identity, Harry remained clueless.

Or, rather, he had but a weak hypothesis. His experience as a shop-assistant in _Borgin&Burke_'s and, especially, some remarks from the memorable midnight talk he had eavesdropped gave birth to another suspicion.

While the Knockturn Alley fences were just small fries, there still remained people much more serious; people who were ready to sacrifice their own interests to the Great Idea of keeping the wizarding society pure of muggle intervention. Harry had met many of them in the days past; and he was not sure that nowadays such people had become completely extinct. He was ready to admit that they were not necessarily former Death Eaters; in fact, he was rather confirmed that they were not. Death Eaters, after all, in their pointless acts of violence had irredeemably compromised even their own ideology – a regrettable weakness, costing them so many potential followers – while here the intervention seemed to be calculated almost with a surgical preciseness.

So, were they dealing with some new secret organization of muggle-haters – and if so, what such an organisation could possibly be? Was it consisting primarily of old whiners like Borgin? Hardly so. If the Cold Factory's accident was indeed planned by them, it suggested a much more active spirit, and a mind much more organized. There was clearly no villain of such a scale in sight – unless, of course, it was not some unknown future Dark Lord in training, Harry said to himself not without a bit of irony.

But the mere existence of such secret organization, if taken seriously, thereby brought the necessity to expose it, before it was too late. The only problem was that Harry had not a slightest idea where he should begin his search, nor was he even sure that his suspicions had at least some merit.

He did not believe in the Ministry experts – he had already seen a perfect example of their abilities in a person of Blaise Zabini – nor did he trust them, because the missing pages from the Cold Factory case were obviously taken not accidentally. But whom could he ask for help? Hermione would do something for him, he was sure of that; but what if that would be not enough?

Harry sighed. How he wished he could talk to Dumbledore! He smiled to himself at that thought: No matter how far would he go, somewhere deep in his heart he was still an eleven-year old child, alone in the strange world, desperate for an advice of the old wise man… An advice he would never receive.

But he still could speak with Ollivander, a sudden idea came to his mind. After all, wasn't it Ollivander who, according to Borgin, was 'the only of us old ones left'? Borgin had never denied that Ollivander's knowledge of magic craft was both wide and deep and not limited itself to the mere wand-making. A praise like that meant a lot nowadays, especially when it came from such a hard-to-please grumbler as Borgin. Probably, the old wand-maker's open-mindedness had allowed him to make acquaintances with the people of the sort Harry was looking for? If so, it was definitely worthwhile to talk to Ollivander.

But for now, Harry had a different duty ahead of him.

The much anticipated day of Halloween Ball came at last, and that meant that he ought to be present at the grand ceremony at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, there was no question of declining an invitation: Harry knew that he was considered one of the most significant figures at the upcoming reception. The fact that he had to deliver a keynote speech did not make his spirits higher either.

That feast could not have come at a worse time, Harry thought with embarrassment. After a half-month work in _Borgin&Burke_'s he was looking forward to a short rest, at last. The nightmares, never completely leaving him at peace since that day ten years ago, now became much stronger, so there hardly was a night when he would not suddenly awake in fear, sweating all over, his heart hammering so hard as if it was ready to blow up. Harry did not know what the reason for the exacerbation was, and only hoped that he would get better after his investigation was over.

To make things even worse, Ginny grew really nervous and angry with him, more than ever before; and just recently, became very ill. Harry, being perfectly honest with himself, could not deny that he was guilty in neglecting her; but what could he do if the work demanded both his entire time and all his efforts? The catastrophe at The Cold Factory was not the case that could be investigated in a slipshod manner, and the discoveries Harry had made thus far only strengthened his serious attitude towards the matter.

But instead of continuing his search – or spending some time with Ginny, at least - he was forced to go to yet another official ball, were he was to stand beside the Minister, wave his hand and smile socially, then to give the most boring speech, worthy of the unforgettable Umbridge, and for the remaining time, keep being introduced to the endless sequence of witches and wizards from all over the world. He would barely have five minutes to spend with his old Hogwarts friends or professors.

Well, the boy who had enough courage to vanquish Voldemort should have certainly enough nerve to behave properly at that reception, Harry said to himself with a rather dark humour.

And with that thought, after giving a quick good-bye kiss to sleeping Ginny, he left.

oxXxo

There certainly was a special ride on Hogwarts Express arranged for the great day. It was rather inconvenient for the majority of guests to get to Hogwarts by train, but the main purpose of the trip had nothing to do with convenience. Of course, the train journey had primarily a symbolical meaning, emphasising further the significance of the place to the Great Victory. Harry even read an article in one of the magazines that in all seriousness claimed Hogwarts grounds to be 'sacral'. By the means of five-hour long train ride, the honourable guests were supposed to become duly imbued with the unique atmosphere of Hogwarts castle from the very beginning.

Harry, however, decided in favour of maybe not so spectacular, but much more practical apparating, and so, in half past six, he appeared in the wastes somewhere between Hogsmead and the Shrieking Shack. He looked around quickly, checking if he was alone. Alas, the party splendour had spread out even there: a group of about a dozen people in the evening dresses were seen not far from the Shack. One of them, a tall and very thin wizard in a dark-grey cloak, seemed to explain something to the rest of the group. So visitors were already there, Harry thought; probably seeing the sights of the Great Battle of Hogwarts. He unwillingly imagined what the comments of their tour guide might be; something like 'and now we are standing at the very place where poor Harry Potter fell, struck down by the Avada Kedavra curse'. He sighed and slowly moved to the direction of Hogwarts.

He was not in a hurry, and reached the place only at five minutes to seven. The Great Hall was brightly lit, and its large French windows were opened to a very artistically decorated garden, now overflowed by the mixed crowd of party guests. Harry watched them for several minutes, trying to find his friends, but in vain: there were too many people, and all they were too much unlike their usual selves. He could hardly recognize his acquaintances from the Ministry and from the Defence against Dark Arts League. Suddenly, he spotted a tall and a bit awkward young man not unfamiliar to him, who was standing slightly aside from other guests. The young man was alone and looked around himself somewhat shyly. Harry smiled and directed his steps toward him.

'Evening, Neville,' he said in a half-voice as he approached the young man.

Neville Longbottom's face showed the real pleasure as he recognised Harry.

'Oh, Harry, it's you!' he exclaimed, grasping both his hands and wringing them hardly. 'I'm so happy to see you! How're you?'

'Fine, Neville. You are alone here?'

'Yes,' Neville answered somewhat uneasily, and Harry understood that his friend probably got his question wrong: as a hint that he – almost alone from their Hogwarts class – had not still found a spouse.

'I mean, have you seen someone from the old D.A. already?' he specified quickly.

Neville shook his head: 'No one. But I came too early; I needed to speak with professor McGonagall first,' and then, answering to Harry's inquiring look, he confessed: 'I was applying for a job, in fact.'

'And you got it, didn't you? Well, Neville, my gratters! It's Herbology, I guess?'

Neville nodded. 'I'm starting after Christmas as assistant professor,' he said, 'will be working with professor Sprout. Grandmother is not very happy about all this, I'm afraid. She hoped I'll become something more… _prominent_,' he found the word at last and smiled apologetically. 'She wished me to be an Auror, like my father. And like you,' he finished quietly. 'But not everyone could make an Auror, after all.'

'Even fewer could make a decent teacher,' Harry said seriously. 'And I think you will be a great one, Neville. You know, I wish I could return here one day as well. Not as a full-time teacher, probably - I don't think I have the right temper for that - but if they only allow me to give some talks at the Defence class – well, I'd love to.'

Neville looked at him with clear surprise: 'Are you serious about it? I mean, you'd be a great speaker, but... is it what you really want? You're a Chief Auror by now. You may be a Minister of Magic in ten years. Or even sooner. Remember Rufus Scrimgeour? He was the Head of the Auror Office, like you, before he got the post.'

'I remember, Neville. And I do remember the reasons for his quick promotion,' Harry said tensely. 'At that time ten years ago, it was unavoidable.'

'Well, if the times had be different, Merlin knows what could have become of each of us,' Neville agreed somewhat sadly.

Harry could have easily guessed what his friend must be thinking. Had the times been different, had Voldemort and Death Eaters never existed, had there been no war, no killings, nothing of it all – then no one of them would have become what they presently were. With Neville's parents well. And Lily and James alive. And Sirius. And Lupin and Tonks. And Dumbledore. Had only the time been different. Yes, the time…

But at that moment, his flow of thoughts was interrupted.

'Look! There are Ron and Hermione!' Neville exclaimed. 'Over there, at the other side of the terrace.'

Harry looked in said direction: yes, Neville was right. It would be quite hard to get there in such a crush – they were divided by no less than a hundred people. Still, it was worth trying. Harry already understood that his only chance to talk to Hermione today would be probably right now, before the official part of the feast began.

'Let's go greet them,' Harry replied and put his hand on Neville's shoulder. 'C'mon, Neville.'

They had passed about half of the distance that parted them from the terrace, when the sudden movement of the crowd almost knocked them down. It seemed that everybody rushed at once towards the central window. Harry squeezed Neville's arm:

'What's the matter? What's happening there?'

Neville stretched his neck, trying to make something out over the numerous heads of party guests. The wave of unintelligible whispers, coming as if from every direction, swept over Harry - and from them, at last, he understood what was going on. 'Look, it's him!' 'Over there?' 'Yes, beside the woman in velvet.' 'Is it Harry Potter? Is it? Oh, let me, let me see him!' 'And the Minister himself…' 'No, I think he does not look like him… You sure?' 'Who could it be? See, the spectacles, dark hair, about thirty… It's him!' Harry, interested himself, stretched his neck trying to make out whom everyone was talking about. Dark silhouettes of several people were seen clearly in the illuminated window, but since he was far away and they stood against the light, he could not discern their faces.

Everybody was still busy staring at the group of people at the window, as Harry and Neville made their way to Hermione and Ron at last.

'Uff!' said Neville, adjusting his cloak. 'They are just crazy, those reporters… As if they've never seen the Hogwarts staff or the Minister. Hello, Ron! Hello, Hermione!'

'What they all are staring at?' inquired bewildered Ron after answering their greetings.

'It seems they think that it is Harry over there,' said Hermione with a sceptical smile. 'That man in dark blue robes.'

'Who, professor Estampe?' Now, it was Neville's turn to look bewildered. 'But he doesn't even _look _like Harry! I talked to him today; McGonagall introduced us. They have nothing in common, if only dark hair.'

'You see, Neville, it happened so that Harry is widely known exactly as a slim dark-haired youth in glasses and with a scar. Well, and since it's too dark to see the scar anyway – or its absence – it was quite reasonable to suggest that the man, standing so close to the Minister –'

'But it's just the new Head of the Ravenclaw, that's why he is standing there, with the faculty!' cried Neville, and then added an explanation: 'Old professor Flitwick is also there, of course, but he in fact retired a year ago. So why to suggest that –'

'It doesn't matter, Neville,' Harry interrupted, smiling. 'See how easy it is? Everybody could look just like me if they want. A dark wig, a pair of glasses, or even a false scar – and here he is, the great and famous Harry Potter at your service… This is exactly the reason why I stopped wearing glasses, by the way. I just don't want to be the part of this show.'

Neville shook his head, as if in a disapproval, but then burst into laughing. Harry smiled in response and turned to Hermione.

'Hermione, I'd like to have a few words with you before it all starts. It's about that matter, you know… Oh, and by the way, you look great today,' he added hastily.

Hermione gave him and understanding look: 'Well, thank you for doing me the honour of noticing how I look, Harry. No need to blush, no offence taken. I know that you are married to your job, even on holidays… Oh, and why are you alone today? Where's Ginny?'

'She is not feeling well,' Harry confessed with a sudden attack of guilt. 'Decided to stay at home. I wanted to stay with her, of course, but you know -'

'Nothing serious, I hope?' asked Ron, slightly alarmed. 'She looked sick when I talked to her last week.'

'Just a minor ailment,' Harry said hastily. 'I think I'll persuade her to go to _St Mungo_ after Halloween, though; who knows, it might be serious.'

'Well, give her my regards,' said Hermione. 'And about that case of yours, Harry, I wanted to talk to you myself. I believe I've found something rather interesting –'

But at that very moment she was interrupted by the person they least expected – even though, in all truth, Harry was anticipating this to happen every moment since his arrival.

'A-ah, _here you are_!'

Harry's heart fell, and, turning around, he found himself face-to-face with very carefully dressed and astonishingly important-looking Percy Weasley.

'I was looking for you everywhere, Harry. It's almost half past seven, and you are still not ready for the ceremony. And it is to begin in a twenty minutes time! What are you thinking about?'

Harry shrugged his shoulders and said carefully that he was aware, that he was about to go and find Percy, and that, of course, he was neither negligent nor irresponsible.

'But you don't even know what you have to do! You missed all the training sessions that the Ministry has organised especially for the occasion. And it is not the waste of money and time; they were held exactly for the purpose of teaching some of _the most prominent figures of the society_,' and Percy straightened himself, 'how to behave in a difficult public situations like this one, when the audience could become so easily embarrassed with a single careless word or an improper gesture.'

Harry said in the most humbly manner that he was very sorry that he failed to have attended those wonderful trainings which the Ministry arranged with such a foresight and care, but that the case he was investigating at the moment, unfortunately, demanded all his time and efforts, and then assured Percy that he would be no trouble during the ceremony, that he did understand the importance of the moment and that he had already even prepared his speech.

'_Your speech_?' Percy rounded his eyes. '_You_ have written the speech? But this is utterly impossible, to give an unverified speech on the event like this. Don't you know that it should have been approved by the Secretariat and then visaed by the Department of Information? I regret, Harry, but this is absolutely out of question. You will read a proper speech, specially prepared for you by the best Ministry writers. Here it is; you will have ten minutes to get yourself familiar with the text. If you need a hand in performing a Memory charm, I'm at your service.'

Harry thanked dear Percy for his time and concern and said that he, undoubtedly, highly esteemed the precious time that the officials of such a great importance had spent working on his speech, and that his gratitude was simply tremendous, and that he, Harry, would certainly do as Percy had suggested and deliver this wonderful speech, and that he was in fact ready as ever to do so and therefore nothing prevented him from going into the Hall _right away_.

'But you can't just go and enter the Hall as everybody does,' Percy said indignantly. 'No, this would be ridiculous. Your significance, Harry, is far much greater than that of any of the others here,' Percy lowered his voice and in a loud whisper, added something he probably considered borderline seditious: 'not excluding the Minister himself. This is why your arrival should not be just plain and ordinary. And it won't be. Of course, there is no need for you to understand all those details, but every moment in the ceremony is designed to bear a deep symbolical meaning and is thought over very thoroughly. Your figure, as I've said, is the symbol of greatest importance. You are the vanquisher of pure Evil itself, the live embodiment of Light and Justice, the Hero of almost an epic scale… Is anything wrong, Harry? Not? For a brief moment I thought that you were not feeling well. It must be a trick of the light then… So where was I? Ah! And surely for a hero as great as you it would be highly improper to simply walk and talk and sit there like any other. No. You will emerge from the nothingness, alone, expected by no one, at the moment when the tension will become almost unbearable. All lights will be on you; everybody's attention will be focused on you alone, as you will be making your way towards the rostrum. Isn't this the _much better_ way to reveal the truly meaning of your person to us all, the people of Wizarding World, rather than let you threading your way through the crowd in this hackneyed Halloween garden?'

Harry nodded like a lamb and reassured dear Percy that he was absolutely ready to emerge from the nothingness in all his shining glory, exactly as all those people – ho doubt in that – were expecting him to do. And with that, he followed Percy to the small dark room where he was to spend the time remaining till his marvellous entry.

But it still was not the end.

Before leaving him alone, Percy withdrew a small spectacles case out of his pocket and passed it over to Harry.

'Here,' he said, 'put the glasses on. You must be recognisable.'

* * *

_I __must admit: I love my Percy – sort of :)_

_Next chapter: Harry is to deliver a speech... And also he__ will visit some secret place in Hogwarts and learn a new theory about the nature of Time._

_And please, __pretty please, review!_


	7. Slytherin's Secret Garden

_AN:_ Thanks to all who have R&R!

_Star Mirage:_ it's not at all important what Harry would say. In fact he could deliver _anything_ as a speech; that's the point. And he's not a person that would object without a strong cause; so why not to do as Percy has told him? As to your second guess - see the next chapter...

_ShadowDweller_: Hmm, a very clever guess. At least one of the versions will imply some political (or rather social) stuff involved. But, in general, all things political are planned for Part 2, when we'll meet Ministry!Hermione. And besides, the entire matter is not as simple as that.

_This chapter:_ Harry delivers his speech at last, renews his acquaintance with someone from his school years, and then has an unforgettable experience with a rather dark ending.

* * *

**Chapter 7. Slytherin's Secret Garden**

Regardless of his less-than-happy feelings, Harry could not help admitting that the people who organized the ceremony certainly knew their job. Everything was working like a clock. The High Table, where faculty members used to sit, now was occupied by the most important guests, and Harry recognised Kingsley Shacklebolt, Ron and Hermione, Neville, professor McGonagall and some other top Ministry officials. There were also several other people whom he hardly remembered, and then two foreign-looking wizards completely unfamiliar to him.

The other guests were to sit at the long tables usually intended for Hogwarts students. No doubt, the seats there also were arranged according to some highly important symbolic principle, but Harry could not decipher what it was – nor did he care much by then. It seemed that only one table from the four was assigned to Hogwarts inhabitants: to the selected students from sixth and seventh years and some of the professors.

The Minister took the floor first. He greeted all guests (applause), congratulated them with the All Hallows Eve (louder applause), recalled some anecdote from his own time at Hogwarts (polite laugher) and then switched to the matter which brought all of them here today (solemn silence).

He spoke of the times past.

He spoke of darkness, and hardships, and losses.

He spoke of the first Voldemort war and then about the years of calm after it.

He spoke of the Second Rise; of the days full of lies, hopelessness, desperation, fear.

He spoke of the uncertainty, the instability, the mistrust; of desperate attempts to fight, of terrible killings, of horrors unseen.

He spoke of the awful fate of muggleborns.

He spoke of lives sacrificed in vain; he spoke of the lost generation.

With every word, the silence in the Hall became more and more grim. Even the light itself seemed to fade at the mentioning of these horrible days (surely a special effect, Harry thought). And, at the moment when the hopelessness and despair seemed to came to the limit, when all light and happiness seemed to disappear from the world, when the death and eternal chill were standing so close to each and every one, - only then the depressed listeners were granted with the so longed-for deliverance.

It was the time for Harry Potter to play his role.

Several rays of the purest silver light focused on his solitary figure, as he went pass the long crowded tables, silently, as if flying; and to the spellbound people in the Hall he indeed appeared as a creature almost ethereal.

He ascended to the dais and turned around, bestead by reverent spectators. At that moment, Harry's eyes met with the eyes of hundreds - but all he could see was only darkness. It did not really matter what he would say, he understood with the cool detachedness; no one would tell the difference.

He made a deep breath and started to speak, and the words of the others, put into his mouth, sounded just as tearjerkingly polished as was proper. He felt that he was away, far away from that place and those people, and the thoughts that did not belong to him flowed smoothly and easily; shaping their moods, their minds, their hearts; and it was so easy, because his words were answering to their own most ardent belief – belief not in a man, but in idea.

Percy was right: all that required of him was just to stand there... and be recognisable.

oxXxo

...As the banquet was nearing its end, people at the tables began to feel much more at ease. The voices became animated and boisterous, faces flushed, topics of the conversations – light-hearted and even frivolous. Taking advantage of that shift in people's mood, Harry ventured to leave his honourable place in the centre of the table, and moved to the terraces, trying to find Hermione who had departed several minutes before him. All people around were staring at him as he passed; he almost hear them whispering behind his back, but he could not help that, and was thankful that they at least were prudent enough not to bother him with some stupid questions.

He found Hermione in one of the most secluded parts of the garden, under the rowan tree decorated with tiny flickering lights. She was alone, and, as it seemed to Harry, was deep in her thoughts.

'Hermione,' he called her quietly.

She gave a start and turned to Harry, surprising him with an unfamiliar expression of a cold enmity. That hostile look, however, disappeared from her face at once as she recognized him:

'Oh, Harry, it's you! I'm so happy to see you,' she said with relief, rushing towards him, but on the instance collected herself.

'Anything wrong? You look so agitated,' Harry said with concern.

'No, no, I'm fine,' she replied quickly, 'It's just - It doesn't matter.'

Harry was by no means persuaded with that answer.

'Your speech was simply brilliant, Harry,' she said hastily, as if trying to soothe his suspicions with her compliment. 'People even cried when you were speaking about Dumbledore. You were so… so…'

Harry was certainly not in the mood to listen compliments about that speech, which was not even his, to begin with.

'I think I'm just not the right guy for all that stuff, Hermione,' he said dryly. 'I just did what everyone was expecting… And you - were you also crying?'

'Almost,' she confessed. 'I wonder, if Luna were here –'

'So she is not?' Harry was really surprised to hear that, he indeed was looking forward to meeting with her. 'But why?'

'Probably the weather was too bad to get here. She can't apparate from the place where she's working; and it's a four-hour broom flight.'

'And where is she working?'

'In the Experimental Charms, just like her mother... I thought you knew.'

Harry shook his head: 'I didn't. I believed she would go looking for that Crumple-Horned Snorkack or whatever its name… Experimental Charms, you say? Hmm, very interesting.'

The fact that Luna Lovegood was working in the Department of Mysteries made his desire to speak with her even greater.

'Then maybe we'll visit her someday?' he suggested. 'What do you think?'

'The idea itself is not bad; but I don't think that I can handle a broom-flight to Azkaban,' replied Hermione with an apologetic smile.

'_Azkaban?_ But why is she here?'

'Don't you know? The Division of Experimental Charms was moved there after it was reformed. It was too dangerous to hold all those weird experiments in the building where more than thousand of people are working. Those women from the Wizengamot Administration Services were always complaining about it: they were saying that those Experimental Charmers were way too careless, and that there was not a day without a leak of something poisonous or some terrible explosion. Of course, they were slightly exaggerating; but then we approved the Global Safety Memorandum, so –'

'So the evil mad scientists were forced to leave for Azkaban,' Harry finished coldly. 'Very clever. The Dementors will be happy.'

'How can you say that?' Hermione cried resentfully. 'Of course the Ministry made sure that the Dementors were no more a threat. Their numbers are strictly controlled. And, by the way – even such a job has to be done by someone.'

Probably, Harry would have thought of some other objection to that, but he recalled that he came here for a different purpose.

'All right, Hermione, if you say so… So what was this thing you were going to tell me about the case? Did you check the documents I gave you?'

'All in its time, Harry. Every inquest should begin from the historical research, you know. So I decided to spend some time studying the historical background of the project first. And of course it was the very right thing to do! All this story is very complicated, Harry. I don't think it is possible to fully understand what happened to the Cold Factory that night without knowing its prehistory. Which, by the way, goes back to more than a thousand years ago…'

'That much?' Harry was really surprised. 'But that's just can't be.'

She frowned, slightly offended. 'You'd better listen to me first. _You_ asked me to help you in the first place – so what's the point of doubting my every world?'

'I'm sorry, Hermione. I was just… somewhat surprised by the scale of events, if I may say so.'

'And you should be. But, if you insist, we could bypass the oldest part of the story and move directly to the Great Statute of Secrecy of 1692…'

Harry forced to restrain himself from further questions. Hermione would end this historical premise sometime, after all, he thought.

But, alas, they were destined to be constantly interrupted today. Hermione had barely begun her long historical excursus when her face suddenly changed, acquiring that strange half-hostile look Harry saw before. He quickly turned around.

A tall and thin man in a grey cloak was standing under the tree next to theirs, his face hidden in shadows. Harry recognized him: it was the wizard with the group of 'tourists' whom he had seen near the Shrieking Shack upon arrival. Harry moved closer to Hermione, ready to protect her from an unwelcome eavesdropper.

But everything was not as he thought.

'Harry, I would like you to meet a colleague of mine,' Hermione said stiffly. 'It's Theodore Nott. Perhaps you remember him from our school time,' she added somewhat doubtfully.

A man stepped out from the shadows and came closer, widening his thin lips in a sort of greeting smile. Now, as Harry saw his face, he recalled Nott on the instant: he was one of the most silent and insignificantly-looking Slytherins in their school year. No surprise that Hermione thought he might not even remember him. The time that had passed changed almost nothing in Nott's appearance: he was still as scraggy as back then, his inexpressive face even more gaunt than before, his jelly-like eyes absolutely lustreless.

'Or, perhaps, you might have met in the Ministry,' said Hermione, watching as Harry was shaking hands with him. 'Mr Nott is the Head of the Department of Information.'

Harry hoped that his expression had not betrayed his feelings as he heard Hermione's words.

'I think we had no chance to meet at work up to now,' Nott said pleasantly. 'But I hope it will change in the very nearest future. We should definitely encourage the inter-department connections. Who knows how many opportunities are being wasted because of our conservatism… or some childish prejudices. Don't you agree with me, Ms Granger?'

Hermione forced out a rather restrained smile. Of course it was a stupid thing not to agree with that, Harry thought. It was interesting, however, to which extent Nott himself believed in what he was saying.

Meanwhile, Nott switched his attention to Harry: 'So, how do you like the Ball, Mr Potter? Your speech was just perfect, by the way.'

It looked that everyone from now on would consider themselves obliged to congratulate him with such eloquence.

'Thank you, Mr Nott. I'm sure that _you_ certainly had a part in its success,' Harry said, thinking of unknown ghost-writers whom he believed to be members of the Department of Information staff. 'Now please excuse me, I'm afraid I must leave.'

Nott looked genuinely upset and disappointed:

'You are leaving? I hope it is not because of me? I didn't mean to interrupt your conversation; I've just become tired myself of that turmoil in the Hall. We invited that German band, you now… a-a… forgot their name; such nice girls in pick robes; everybody is mad about them this season; but if you ask me, they just make too much noise. So I walked out to catch a breath of a fresh air… Same as you, I believe. Perhaps, we could have a little walk together?'

'I would not mind. But won't those people in the Hall notice Harry's absence?' suggested Hermione pointedly, and a weird guess hit Harry: probably, Hermione really wanted him to leave, so that she could stay alone with Nott. It must be him whom she expected when Harry met her; that's why she acted so strangely. Only, why would they want to meet secretly in the farthest part of a school garden? For all he knew, they had nothing to do with each other.

'I think our guests won't notice anything when those pink girls are on stage,' Nott said with a hint of a sly smile. 'And, to say the truth, I was looking forward to speaking with you for quite some time, Mr Potter. It happened that I overheard the part of your conversation - quite unwillingly, I assure you.'

'We were merely discussing history.' Hermione smiled socially.

'History! Indeed, none other topic could be more suitable for today's evening.' The pathetic exclamation did not concord to Nott's piercing glare and serious face, creating an odd impression of mockery. 'You mentioned the Great Parting and the Statute of Secrecy; which both were ultimate measures dealing with protection and preservation. I hope that you would forgive me my obtrusiveness – I'm rather interested in the subject myself.'

'It would be foolish of me to claim that I knew that subject better than you, Mr Nott,' answered Hermione with an over-acted modesty, dangerously balancing at the edge of scoffing. 'Now, with that wonderful Department of yours, our society is safer than ever. You went all out to make sure that none of us would make anything unwary.'

That was too much, Harry thought. Much as he shared Hermione's feelings and disliked Nott, he could not approve her current behaviour. It was way too careless, to say the least. And anyway, he detested being in the middle of somebody else's battle.

'So, um… Mr Nott, if I got it right, your principal goal is to watch how the Great Statute of Secrecy is implemented? That's it?' Harry said, trying to sound friendly.

'Yes, Mr Potter, that is mainly correct.' Nott turned to him not without certain gratitude.

'And aren't you afraid that your job will become obsolete with time? Because with the current policy we are implementing, it's easy to predict that someday, in the future not so distant, there will be no need in that Statute at all.' Harry was deliberately ambiguous, hinting at the recent adoption of many practices of muggle society that aroused such a discontent among the old Wizarding families, to one of each Nott himself belonged.

'It's our strategic goal, true,' Nott said, looking at him seriously, 'but, I'm afraid, you're too optimistic in suggesting that it could happen in the nearest future. So, as for now, we are just trying to keep both parties safe from each other, so to speak.'

'This must be not easy, considering how our world has changed,' said Harry cautiously, deliberately omitting mentioning of anything specific: he hoped that Nott would betray something important with his answer.

However, Nott appeared cleverer than that.

'In the course of life, changes are inevitable,' he said. 'Otherwise, it is not life at all. I wish that some of our most stubborn conservatives understood that. The world has changed dramatically, as you said, but they keep acting as if we are still living in the Middle Ages.'

Harry suddenly remembered his experience in _Borgin&Burke_'s and could not help replying:

'Still, those who remain blind to these changes are perhaps happier than those who understand that they are inevitable but just can't accept them.'

As he said that, Nott looked at him with an expression quite peculiar, as if just having noticed him for the first time in his life.

'I wonder,' he began rather diffidently. 'Now that you've mentioned this... I know that it's hardly possible, Mr Potter – but have you ever heard about Salazar Slytherin's Secret Garden?'

Harry shook his head, but Hermione, unsurprisingly, said:

'I read about it in "Hogwarts, A History". It's briefly mentioned there as one of Slytherin's experiments which he conducted as he and other Founders were working on Hogwarts defence system. It was an unsuccessful experiment, though, as far as I can remember.'

'I'd rather not say that,' Nott objected politely. 'The Garden simply was not integrated into the protection system, though – who knows? – may be it had been, and we just failed to understand that. But anyways, it is not important now. It is the very nature of the experiment that matters.'

'And what about that nature?' asked Hermione curiously, almost ready to forget her grudge against Nott.

'Why, I think it arose precisely from the desire to _resist the inevitable_, of which you have spoken, Mr Potter,' he nodded to Harry. 'Because Slytherin tried to create a place where nothing was changing. That's what his garden is - a place essentially free of change, which remains forever immutable.'

Harry remained silent; he still was not sure how he should react to Nott's tale. Hermione, on the contrary, was clearly interested, even if not completely believing in it:

'But this is impossible,' she said confidently. 'The mere existence of such a place directly contradicts to the Second Fundamental Principle of Essential Transfiguration.'

'You mean _De Vita Aeterna_ one? It may seem so, but in fact, there is no contradiction. One of the necessary conditions mentioned in the Second principle is a certain assumption about the nature of time, if you remember, Ms Granger. But what if this assumption is altered?' And he gave her a look of inquiry. 'Well, I see that you are still not persuaded. There is no need to take my words on trust: you could see it all for yourself, if you like – because the garden exists; it is not a fable.'

Harry and Hermione exchanged their looks. The place which contradicts the laws of nature itself was certainly worthwhile to see. If, of course, Nott was not fooling them. But then again, why he would?

'I believe it could be an instructive experience, Mr Nott,' said Hermione at last and smiled to Harry. 'Besides, whatever this garden is, it's still much better than stupid dancing to that awful music.'

oxXxo

The worst part of their excursion was the inevitable necessity to pass through the Great Hall again. The banquet was over, the long tables were moved to the walls, and the large space in the centre was occupied with clusters of aimlessly wandering guests. A number of others, mostly youngsters, were dancing closer to the stage, where a quartet of pink-dressed girls performed some droningly-loud song.

Theodore Nott waved jauntily to almost drunk Draco Malfoy, who was surrounded by three of four giggling girls, at his 'and this is my best friend Theo Nott; he's a Ministry bigwig, you know', while Harry did his best not noticing the very invocatory signs from the Minister himself, who was clearly intending to introduce him to those two foreign wizards that were sitting beside him at the banquet. He failed, however, to avoid a reporter from _The Daily Prophet_, who caught him and Hermione, stack two tall glasses of wine into their hands, and made a dozen shots from no less than tree different angles – all those moving with lightning speed, so that he had left them even before Nott finished his talk with Horace Slughorn, no doubt, promising his old Head of the House to visit one of the nearest Slug Club meeting.

But at last, this walk of fame was over, and after ten-minute roaming around the dark and narrow corridors somewhere above Slytherin's dungeons, they found themselves at the small sturdy-looking door. Nott whispered something over the rusty lock, and the door opened, allowing them to enter a place that, to all accounts, must have been some inner courtyard.

Probably, it even had been a courtyard initially, Harry thought, when the first feeling of surprise disappeared and his eyes became adjusted to the bright white light, coming as if from everywhere.

'And I thought that all Slytherin's premises were underground,' said Hermione, looking as astonished as Harry himself. 'I've never even imagined that it will be something so… so…' and she broke off, not able to find a word that would properly characterize the place where they were standing.

At first, it seemed that the name 'garden' was a clear mockery, for the place lacked absolutely everything that could have justified that name: there were no trees, no flowers, no bushes, and even no facilities considered usual for gardens, such as a summerhouse, a pavilion or a fountain. Had there been at least some picturesque rocks, the garden could have been named 'Japanese garden' – but there was not even a single large boulder in sight.

But then, it became evident that, despite its most weird and eerie look, this place was indeed what it was called – a garden. The black scorched branches, sticking out from the ashes that were earth, could be seen as real trees, dried and disfigured almost beyond recognition; but that 'almost' was indeed important here, for they were still seen as _trees_. The ashes below were undoubtedly ashes, though somewhere pressed to the hardness of stone. The garden trails were laid from simple round pebbles, so worn that they became bone-white. The patches of thin dark grass resembled both balls of wire and shreds of artfully burned cloth. And that entire picture was completed with the omnipresent white light, which, despite its brightness, somehow was even more dead than any other thing in that garden.

Harry stared at this monochrome picture of what could be named the very essence of death itself, and - the most impossible thing it was - could not help feeling that somehow, with all its eeriness and dark absurdity, this place was not devoid of some strange kind of beauty. It was as if all things in the world suddenly showed him their real selves, stripped of all details merely accidental: and it was a sight both terrifying and true. But at the same time, he felt that he was alone in this uncompromising world; as every man is ever alone when he is to face his death.

Harry shivered and took a sip of wine from his glass. The dark red liquid looked to him like blood - and tasted almost like that.

'What a nightmarish place,' said Hermione at last, shrugging nervously. 'Now I indeed start to believe all those things they say about Salazar Slytherin.'

'Well, all I can say that the man detested compromise,' Harry responded, rather answering to his own thoughts. 'Which seems rather strange to me, considering that namely cunning is an ultimate Slytherin-ish trait. One could hardly imagine something more straightforward and uncompromising than this place.' He sipped his wine again, trying to escape those weird hissing noises in his head, almost imperceptible but very annoying.

'It's remarkable that you're saying so, Mr Potter,' said Nott, looking at him with the growing interest. 'Because I asked myself the same question many times; I'd say every time I came here.'

'I find it hard to believe that somebody would like to come here more than once,' Hermione said repulsively. 'This garden is so wrong. It just cannot exist. It's _disgusting_.'

'Why, in fact I used to come here quite often,' Nott said peacefully. 'Everything becomes so clear while you are here, as if a veil that covers your eyes is lifted. A perfect place to do the homework, by the way. Or to turn something over in your mind… And what do you think, Mr Potter?'

Harry had to make a considerable effort to gather his thoughts. The hissing noises were becoming more and more annoying, and it seemed that something was flashing before his eyes.

'I'd say I feel rather distracted… But you promised to tell us, Mr Nott, what is so special about this place – with the exception that it demonstrates a very extravagant aesthetical taste of its creator, of course.'

'It's easy to guess. All you need is to understand what this place _is not_, rather than what it_ is_,' Nott replied with a polite smile. 'Because it's what is _absent_ from here that makes its essence. But of course you can guess what it is?'

They spoke at the same time:

'Sense,' said Hermione. 'Life,' said Harry.

'Hmm,' he said, clearly amused at their answers. 'I would say "illusion". But we are all wrong. Or, as an option, we are all right. Because the answer is "time".'

'Time?' repeated Hermione with disbelief. 'This just can't be. In our Universe, no material object can exist outside the boundaries of time. And, the ugly this place is, it undoubtedly exists; and exists here, in our world.'

'I could say that it is just one of the possible theories of time – but I won't; because the explanation does not contradict the possibility that the point of view you mentioned, Ms Granger, is also true… The time I speak of is the inner quality of things, and thus a subjective measure, as opposed to the time as an absolute dimension of muggle physics. And outside of this inner time, we would see the things not as they usually appear to us. What we indeed observe here is a compressed existence of a sort; which some would call the essence of things; the essence that lies in what they were, are, and will be, and even in what they might be – the key point is that this existence is perceived as a unity rather than as a sequence of separate states… You want to ask something, Mr Potter?'

The half-transparent stripes in the dust were not an optical illusion, Harry thought, they were real… And those noises, they are… as if… oh no, not _now_…

'Mr Potter?'

'I beg your pardon, I've just got lost in thoughts for a moment,' he forced himself to say at last. 'So are you saying that here, in this garden, all things are truly what they are? With their past-present-futures in one?'

'Yes, you are quite right; a brilliant way to describe what I was trying to say.'

'You know, Mr Nott, I do remember I read about a theory not unlike the one you have mentioned,' Hermione interrupted, slightly frowning. 'It states that the time as we usually see it is merely an illusion that originates from the peculiarities of our perception. That in fact it has no such characteristic as continuance; it's only we see it as such. And then it states that a thing – or a person – could be seen as 'truly self' only when considered as a unity of all the moments of its existence; from the very beginning to the very end -'

Hermione's voice waxed and waned in a manner most obscure; and Harry passed his hand over his forehead, wondering, why those ashen snakes were hissing so loud. As if they waited for them to come here, to this garden, for no less than eternity… What did they want from them?.. What?..

'- and what is the most notable, according to this theory, is that all our future actions are in fact already predetermined, because they have already happened – we only don't know that. So, as you see, Mr Nott, the entire issue of freedom of choice and the freedom of will –'

'Excuse me… Mr Potter, are you unwell?' inquired Nott with an impeccable concern.

'I'm quite all right, thank you,' Harry answered, and the sound of his own voice came to him frighteningly alien. 'This all is… very interesting… so please, continue…'

Could it be that it's just the place that was wrong? It must be, it must be, Harry kept saying to himself. Because they're coming closer, those snakes; they came for him, and for him only, they came for his soul, to feed on it, to rip it apart… He reminded himself that he was not supposed to understand Parseltongue, but it did not help, because he knew, _he always knew_... But he had to sustain it; he ought to, for the only place he could retreat was that dark abyss, full of his nightmares, from which he struggled to emerge every night, and which was still holding him as tight as ever… It's a trap, that's what it was; they were hunting him into that pit of nightmares again…

'- so, in the end, every man is just what he is in every single moment of his life, because this single moment contains all others, all that were and that will be. _In the end, every man is just what he is _–'

'It's a trap,' Harry tried to say it aloud, but could not.

He saw as Hermione stopped suddenly, her face changed on the instant, her eyes full of fear; he felt as Nott grasped his arm, looking into his eyes so piercingly as if trying to get inside his brain; he watched as his own hand opened, letting the tall glass of blood-that-was-wine down, to the ashen grave - and it coloured this dead garden with its vivid red; live, uncompromising red, as if in a last desperate attempt to stop the inevitable that was about to happen; but it was too late, too late…

…Harry Potter fell to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

_So, what's happened to Harry? See the next chapter! Oh, and please review! Suggestions about what will __come next are also welcome :)_


	8. The Day After

AN: traditional thanks to my reviewers (Star Mirage and ShadowDweller) and to all who read my fic!

About the concept of Garden from ch.7: the time theory Nott and Hermione mentioned was not invented by me. AFAIK, it belongs to JW Dunne, who wrote several books on it circa 1930. BTW, JB Priestly used this theory in his play _Time and the Conways_.

_This chapter_: we learn what happened to Harry. And also see crying Hermione, jealous Ron, and very efficient Theodore Nott.

* * *

**Chapter 8****. The Day After **

He was lying on the ground covered with moist rotten leaves. Chilly wind blew somewhere above, among the grim bare treetops. He was alone.

He tried to look at his hands but could not. The fact surprised him at first but then he suddenly understood that, probably, it was because he had none. Nor could he feel his body.

He closed his eyes. Soft rustling noise was coming from several directions; yet far, imperceptible, but moving closer, closer. Rats, and snakes, and lizards, and other small ones, they are living their life, carrying their little tiny bodies. Did they sense him? Did they care?

Did someone care?

His demanding thought carried him away on the instant, and he saw a young woman, standing at the window half-turned to him against the gorgeous sunset of vivid violet and gold, a tall glass of water in her hand, a torn bunch of grape in the other. 'That's for it to _preserve,' _she says, 'to keep it, to hold it, to let it last forever, forever, _forever_…' He's trying to stop her, he knows that something terrible is going to happen, and all his essence is writhing in a desperate attempt to cease it, to prevent what is to be; he's reaching for her, he stretches his hands with a silent scream. But in vain he struggled; he has no hands, he has no body, he's not even a spirit yet – but an idea, a fear, a negation of what is to come; a nothing trying to break through this invisible glass wall.

Three drops of juice fall into the water with the finality of inevitable; and is alone in that Halloween forest, grasping the earth in unanswerable 'why', knowing that no force could make him whole again.

The woman turns, and he sees her face. It's his mother. Slowly, so slowly she raises her hand with the glass, moving it to his face, and then freezes; her stillness turns this offer into demand, and he is helpless against it. 'No!' he screams, in his fear and despair; he is not looking, he will not see her eyes.

'No!'

And then, as if an answer to his cry, the glass explodes in her hand; and hundreds of shining splinters, sharp as razors, impale him through, breaking him into pieces, nailing him to this forest ground, solitary as ever.

But at the moment his struggle for existence becomes unbearable, a strange thing happens.

A great calmness descends upon him, and his thoughts at last are clear and distant, and he feels as the life of the forest takes his self, making him a part of it all; and trees are speaking to him, and he understands; and the grass is growing through his would be eyes; and the birds weave his silent voice into their singing; and the rats take apart of what is left of his memories; and as the last of them fade, he dissipates into nothing, into the ocean of milky autumn fog; no trace of him left in this world…

And then he opened his eyes.

oxXxo

'Hermione?' he called in a weak voice.

'It's all right, Harry. It's over. All is well.' She bended over him, adjusting his blanket; and he felt a tickling touch of her hair, still smelling of an apple and cinnamon pie from the feast.

He looked up and saw the light-bluish ceiling above with fuzzy golden clouds running over it. A soothing sound of distant bells was coming from somewhere.

'Where am I?' he asked. 'What's happened?'

'You felt unwell at the reception, when we were at that garden –' Hermione's voice was soft and tender, but in her eyes he caught a glimpse of anger, though he was not sure if it was him who caused it. 'Do you remember anything?'

'Yes,' he nodded, and the picture of that black and white hell emerged in his memory. 'The garden. An unforgettable sight. I'm recalling you and Nott talked about some theory of time…' he shook his head in regret, 'I'm afraid I don't remember much of it… And then… and then…' He broke off, not sure whether he should talk Hermione about the transparent snakes and his visions.

'And then you collapsed,' she said. 'Oh my god, I was so frightened. It happened just all of a sudden. And you were so pale and still, hardly breathing at all. I tried _Rennervate_, but it did not work. I almost panicked,' Hermione confessed, smiling weakly.

Harry returned her smile, well aware that she in fact did not panic so much – or she were not the Hermione he knew. And, confirming his thoughts, she went on:

'Then I saw that broken glass of wine, and decided to check it. The contents almost soaked, and I was just in time for the Revealing spell. A minute later – and we wouldn't have known anything. So I analyzed the wine, and it appeared to be poisoned.'

'Poisoned?' Harry repeated, astonished. 'You are saying someone tried to kill me?'

'Well, not exactly _kill_ you,' she replied. 'It appeared to be for another purpose, as I learned later… But we didn't know it then. I was about to take you to Madam Pomfrey, but Nott advised to transport you directly here, to _St Mungo_'s. He said that the healers here are more experienced, and that there was no need to embarrass the guests at the Ball… And then he had a direct Portkey, so it was very easy to bring you here.'

'A direct Portkey to _St Mungo_'s? What a lucky coincidence,' Harry muttered.

Hermione laughed: 'Oh, Nott has lots of Portkeys. Two or three dozens thin gold and silver plates – almost like a muggle bunch of keys on a ring. I think it's quite handy, especially when you are travelling to places where the direct apparating is impossible, like Hogwarts.'

'Or Azkaban,' he joked darkly. Then he remembered of what she said before: 'So you've said that the wine was not exactly poisoned. What was it then?'

'It's some derivative of the Draught of Darkness,' Hermione answered. 'You know, the potion which evokes the most dark and unpleasant memories. You must have seen something terrible.'

He avoided her inquiring gaze and stared at the golden clouds again.

'Yes,' he said at last. 'I died in that forest. And then my mother, she was… I see it often in my dreams when I have those nightmares. Only this time, it was different in the end.'

'That's when we gave you a Soothing Solution,' nodded Hermione. 'You waked almost on the instant.'

'That must be it,' Harry agreed indifferently. 'But I wonder who poisoned my drink. There was that photographer from _The Daily Prophet_; he gave us those glasses…'

'Yes,' said Hermione. 'We have found that guy, but he claims that he has not meddled with the wine. Still, the story is rather foggy. It appears that this reporter in fact does not work for _The Daily Prophet_.'

'How's come?'

'He works for _The Glamour Gaudy.'_ Hermione sighed, ablush.

'That rag?' Harry was clearly embarrassed.

'We're trying to find out how he managed to get inside. Nott's people are working on it right now; he said that it'd take no more than a few hours. Oh, and the investigation has already begun.'

Harry winced: he did not like to be an object of somebody else's search. But this time, there was no way to avoid it – an attempt to poison someone, whoever he or she would be, would not be allowed to remain unpunished.

'So who's in charge? Better it be Ron; at least he won't be bothering me with all that annoying questions.'

'I'm sorry, Harry, but the Department of Information took the entire case under its control,' said Hermione softly. 'Nott has persuaded Shacklebolt that the matter is of greatest importance. Even if it were just a Head of Aurors attacked, he would still have insisted upon it; but now, when it concerns you, considering your significance…'

'Yea, yea, I know. I'm so great and mighty. Please, Hermione, spare me from another Percy-talk,' he pleaded.

'But this is true, Harry,' she said with reproach. 'You may not like it, but your person does indeed mean very much for the majority of wizarding people. If only all those guests at the reception would have got to know what happened to you, there would be a terrible panic, I'm sure. It was not easy to conceal all the matter, just for your concern.'

'I bet your friend Theo Nott has simply overdone himself, inventing the excuses for me,' he said teasingly.

But his remark had an effect most unusual.

'He is not my _friend_,' Hermione answered fiercely, and her eyes flashed with annoyance. 'How could _you_, of all people, say such nonsense?'

Harry, who could not imagine that an innocent joke like that would anger her to such degree, once again said to himself that Hermione's relationship with Nott was somewhat too much… _tensed_ for it to be an ordinary working relationship between the Ministry officials working in different departments.

'Then I indeed don't understand,' he said quietly but very seriously, and then fell silent. 'Hermione,' he continued after a pause, 'I see that something is not right here. You may choose not to tell me if you don't want, of course – but maybe it'll be better if you do?'

Hermione frowned and bit her lip, hesitating, and Harry was waiting, trying not to give away his anxiety. At last, she seemed to make up her mind: her face cleared, and she lifted her head, preparing to speak.

But at that very moment, the door burst open, revealing very red-faced and very furious Ron, who was clutching some crumpled sheet of paper is his hand. Somewhere behind him a figure of a healer could be seen, who seemed to be withholding Ron from breaking into the room – but all his attempts were in vain.

'Ron!' exclaimed Hermione. 'What's happened?'

'_You_ tell me what's happened,' he muttered in a hardly restrained fury, not even looking at Harry. 'Look at this!' and he shoved that crushed paper almost in Hermione's face. 'How should I understand all this business?'

Hermione took a step back, abashed by this rush, while the small but brave healer was doing his best in suppressing enraged Ron. At last, he succeeded, grabbing both his arms.

'Our apologies, Mr Potter,' he breathed out, 'it won't happen again. We'll lead him out at once.'

Hermione made a small gesture, as if trying to protest, but did not venture to object.

'_Stop_,' said Harry in a weak, but imperious voice.

The healer stopped and looked at him questioningly. Ron also turned his head towards Harry, making no more attempts to break loose from the healer's grip.

'Calmed down already?' Harry asked quietly, his eyes fixed on Ron.

His friend gave a sullen nod.

'Then let him go, please. He will behave,' said Harry, addressing the healer. 'Yes, I know what I'm doing, don't worry.'

Slowly, the healer withdrew his hands, still watching Ron very tensely. But the disturbing visitor seemingly was going to keep his word and behaved indeed properly.

'I'm sorry,' Ron constrained himself to speak, now red both from embarrassment and from anger. 'Though I'm not sure that it is I who should be sorry, because –' then he cast a sidelong glance at the healer, and Harry with a small nod allowed the latter to leave.

'Now tell us what happened,' said Hermione, recollecting her self-reliance. 'And it must be something really terrible, to justify your awful behaviour, Ron.'

'I bet it is,' Ron said grimly and threw the ill-fated paper at Harry's bed. 'Look for yourself, you _horny Potter_.'

Harry took the sheet and smoothed it out. It appeared to be the first page of the very _Glamour Gaudy _newspaper which he and Hermione had been talking about earlier, a rag that was a weird mixture of ultra-conservative political pamphlets, suspicious classified ads, and high-life gossips and scandals.

A header made from huge-sized flickering letters was informing each and every one of the potential readers:

_HARRY GOES HARDCORE_

Then, in a bit smaller font, an explanation was given:

_Harry __"Golden Boy" Potter lures the wife of his friend into a horny adventure and then gets dead drunk at the Hogwarts Anniversary Party._

Under that promising beginning, there was a big page-size photograph of Harry and Hermione who were standing very close to each other, his hand on her waist. Harry thought that it might be one of the shots that this reporter had made; only now the scene looked much less innocent.

Further below, the reader was invited to learn the full story (with pictures!) at pages 4-6.

'So where are they?' Harry asked, looking at Ron as if what he had just seen was an ordinary weather forecast. 'I mean those pages four through six.'

'You want them?' asked Ron bitterly. 'What for? Your photo-album? Ah, if you only were not so ill, we would have quite a different talk, Harry, _my best friend_. Bloody hell! I knew something was not right here, with Hermione's coming home from the Ministry later and later and her constant headaches. And your attitude towards Ginny… yes, everything is falling into place now! How could I be so stupid! I bet everyone knew, the entire Ministry; they must be laughing behind my back, all this time… Tell me, how long ago has it all begun?'

To that blistering tirade Hermione had an answer of her own: she stepped forward impulsively and cut him short with a loud slap in the face. Then, for a moment, she stood silently, staring at her hand with a very perplexed look, as if not believing what she had just done, – and after that, suddenly burst into tears and ran out from the room.

Ron, breathing heavily, made a move towards the door, but then turned to Harry again, torn apart by antagonistic feelings.

'I'm sorry to tell you, but you are really a complete idiot, Ron,' said Harry crossly. 'Because only a total moron could believe all this bullshit. Don't you know what kind of a newspaper that _Glamour Gaudy_ is? So how could you believe all that mud that is written there? As if you don't trust Hermione. Or me. And I hoped that our friendship indeed meant something.'

'But how could you deny it?' Ron cried. 'If it were just usual gossips, those blah-blahs about dresses and spouses, I would not give them a single knut. But they had real pics, and I saw them with my own eyes! You and her snogging in the school garden, under the rowan tree. And she had that face… I believed that it was real when I saw it. And then you were dancing together, when I was socializing with that two oldsters from Brazil – all because the Minister could not find Harry Potter, you see! And then those pictures from the VIP party at some secret room in the dungeons, well, they could make _Playwitch_ look pale in comparison! They had but one tiny flaw: there was my own wife on them, doing you-know-what with my best friend!'

Harry felt that he was blushing. 'There was no VIP party in the dungeons. What nonsense! Those pictures are obviously fake, Ron,' he said firmly. 'We'll have them checked, and you'll see for yourself.'

'It almost impossible to make up the details like that, and you're well aware of it,' Ron shook his head. 'Then again, weren't you two absent from the Ball? You had left even before the banquet was over, and were nowhere to be found! I wandered through that blasted Hall and the terraces and the garden hundred times!'

'In fact we were at the garden at first,' Harry admitted. 'But we were not alone, that guy, Theodore Nott, was with us all the time. Ask him what we were doing if you like. And then he indeed led us to the dungeons –'

'Aha! You admit it yourself!

'– but of course not to some stupid party. He just offered to show us… well, some places of interests in Hogwarts; Hermione read about them in 'Hogwarts, a History'. And just before that, some guy had taken a couple of shots of me and Hermione – I suspect that he had meddled with them later, to obtain all those nice pictures you're mentioned...' Harry knew that he sounded really foolish, as if there was indeed a need to prove his own innocence. 'Blimey, Ron, _isn't it as clear as a day_?'

Ron was thinking over his story, still not sure whether he should believe it. However, Harry was happy to see that his friend now looked much more relieved.

'So, that Nott fellow was with you all the time?'

'You can ask him personally.'

'Hmm, it's still rather weird,' Ron drawled doubtfully. 'What the hell he needed from both of you?'

'As you have said yourself, we were _socializing_,' Harry said ironically. 'He's a big man in the Ministry now, a Head of the Department. Hermione introduced us. Maybe he just wanted to meet me, after all.'

'Big man, eh? It seems that everybody around is the big boss, except from me,' Ron smiled bitterly. 'Even my wife is the boss,' the thought of Hermione made his spirits even lower. Harry understood that Ron must have been thinking of the way to make it up with her.

'You better go and find her,' said Harry. 'I won't go anywhere, you know, in case you decide to demand satisfaction from me after all.'

Ron stared at the door with the dull expression on his face. He hesitated for a moment, probably, considering if he should apologise, but then just opened the door and walked out, not saying a word.

Harry sighed heavily. The Soothing Solution must have worn off, and his head ached terribly. Ron's over-jealous accusations had not made the things better. The overall absurdity of the situation was getting on his nerves, making his mind even more clouded.

Who could have fabricated those photos, and what for? Was it a mere reporter, trying to dig something fishy and, after not having success, just inventing it? Or was there something more to it? And even if it was just a plain journalist's trick in the end – still, somebody was trying to poison him. Who could it be? That malicious reporter again? No, that did not make any sense. What was the point in giving him the Draught of Darkness? Was it somehow involved in the reporter's evil plan of receiving those more incriminating pictures? Hardly so. The person or people responsible for the poisoning, whoever they might be, must have something other in mind.

A small possibility existed, however unlikely, that all that was just somebody's stupid prank. There always were some characters that would enjoy that sort of practical jokes immensely: look, great and brave Harry Potter is in deep shit; he's sobbing, crying, moping – ha-ha, how funny. Very stupid, true; but then again, the world was not devoid of a certain percentage of incorrigible idiots with a very distorted sense of humour.

Harry himself, however, suspected that the reasons for his poisoning were far not so naïve. Probably, the plotters thought that he would become so distressed that he would lose self-control; and had in mind precisely that. This possibility disturbed Harry most of all, because it implied that the poisoners were fully aware of his nightmares and of their nature – and that meant that they probably knew a damn lot of rather personal things about him.

But, maybe, their goal was just to frighten? Maybe those dark images were meant as some sort of warning? To prevent him from doing something? Or a hint that he had gone too far? In that case, they must be connected somehow to his current investigation; and that – again – brought him to the Cold Factory incident…

Well, at least that could signify that he had already found something important – enough important to disturb those mystical villains. But what it possibly could be?

His findings at Borgin and Burke's? His undermining the black market economy by eliminating Knockturn Alley shady network? The suspicion that the Committee of Investigation's verdict was not correct? His guesses about the role of Department of Information in all of it? Or – why not – the next move of that hypothetic society of muggle-haters?

None of that seemed plausible to him – but then again, none seemed utterly impossible. Harry felt that there was something very important in all those events that he had missed. Only, how to find this mythical 'something'?

At that moment, he was drawn away from his reflections by a cautious knock at the door.

'Come in,' said Harry. The door opened, and none other than Theodore Nott appeared. Harry tensed at once: he had a strong feeling that Nott's visit would bring something very interesting.

'Good morning, Mr Potter,' he said, and Harry looked at the clock: indeed, it was six in the morning already; Nott had even found time to change his formal dress to something grey and low-key. 'I'm so relieved to see that you are better.'

Harry nodded, confirming that he was indeed feeling much better – despite it was not quite true.

Nott came closer and carefully sat on the bed's edge: 'I have some information that could be of interest to you. Wouldn't you mind?..'

'Of course not,' said Harry. 'What is it?'

For a moment, Nott seemed hesitating, his eyes fixed on his hands; he was clearly choosing the right words.

'Ms Granger has already told you that the wine was poisoned, I presume?' he inquired, and, after Harry answered positive, continued: 'But I regret to tell you, Mr Potter, that this is not all. It appears that the newspaper which that reporter was working for, a certain _The Glamour Gaudy_, has published an article, presenting the events in a light rather unfavourable for you.'

'Mr Weasley has already informed me,' said Harry with a wry half-smile. 'His description was rather vivid, so you need not to bother yourself, Mr Nott.'

'Oh, is that so?' Nott raised his thin eyebrows. 'I'm very sorry that you had to undergo – '

But Harry stopped him: 'I do not seek your pity, Mr Nott. Of course this newspaper will answer for its lies. It's clear that we can bring a suit against it, and will win it undoubtedly with a position as strong as ours.'

'You still can accuse the newspaper of defamation; it's true,' said Nott socially. 'But there's no need in that. We have already withdrawn and destroyed the entire circulation of the last issue. No more than an hour had passed since it was printed, so there couldn't be too much harm done. It seems that your friend Mr Weasley was among the unlucky first readers… Didn't you wonder how he managed to obtain his copy so early, by the way?'

That thought had not come to Harry's mind, but now he saw that Nott had the point; it was indeed very strange.

'An anonymous well-wisher has mailed it to him, as well as to your wife, Mr Potter,' Nott said in reply to his silence.

Harry almost moaned: as if it was not enough; and now Ginny would see it...

'Luckily, she was not at home, and we had enough time to intercept her mail,' Nott continued, completely unruffled. 'She is here, in this very building, in fact; you'll be able to see her later… You see, there were no deplorable consequences. But let's go back to the point. Of course you didn't expect that we would have dawdled all that time. Such deeds can't remain without proper reaction from the authorities. I don't know if you're aware of it, but we started an inquest at once. And now, four hours later, I'm happy to inform you that the matter is settled.'

'You mean you _forced_ that reporter to confess to the poisoning?' Harry specified, almost imperceptibly emphasising his 'forced'.

'I mean that we have found the true culprit; the person behind the entire plot,' said Nott, utterly ignoring that hidden taunt. 'And, answering to you question, Mr Potter – yes, he has confessed.'

That was indeed something, and for Harry, much as he disliked Nott, was impossible not to give him his due.

'So who is it?' he asked.

'I must admit that the matter was rather simple,' Nott smiled. 'All we had to find out was the real identity of the newspaper's owner, that's it. And he appeared to be none other than our former schoolmate, Draco Malfoy.'

So Malfoy had got himself a newspaper, Harry thought. No surprise in that, he had always been quite a show-off. Probably, owning a newspaper gratified his vanity. Certainly it must have been not a cheap hobby – and that was probably the reason why he had sold nearly all his heirlooms. Now, knowing the secret, Harry could not resist smiling: the _Glamour Gaudy_ contents and policy was a perfect mirror of the personality of its owner. Just as the nature of his latest joke was: loud, scandalous and pointless.

'Malfoy, of all people,' Harry said with a smile, shaking his head. 'The media magnate.'

'Well, Mr Potter, I'm glad that you did not lose your sense of humour,' said Nott. 'Then certainly this little incident could not have damaged your health very seriously.'

But of course, Harry thought. Of all his guesses, the one that appeared to be true was the most innocent. There was still one small detail, however…

'I'm afraid I still don't understand,' he said, 'what was the point of giving me the Draught of Darkness, and not some other potion? I would have thought Malfoy would assign something more humiliating for me.'

'And you are quite right in your assumption, Mr Potter,' Nott answered. 'Their prank did not go as they planned. It seems that Malfoy simply messed up the recipe, failing to mix the right ingredients. He had never been really good in potion making. He intended to brew the Draught of Desire, a potion that invokes the most primitive of human wishes.' Nott lifted his eyes on Harry and continued nonchalantly: 'Primarily sexual. Probably, he was hoping to obtain some more substantial evidence of your … eh… indecent behaviour. And, when he had not succeeded, decided in the favour of fraud. '

'Poor Draco,' said Harry ironically. 'I appeared to be such a disappointment for him. I ever was. Though, this time he demonstrated an unusual resourcefulness. I'm even surprised.'

'Well, in fact Malfoy claims that he had an associate,' said Nott slowly, watching Harry very closely. 'And it was namely this associate who had allegedly given him an idea for the prank… Yet another of our schoolmates - Blaise Zabini from the Department of Mysteries. Have you met with him these days?'

'I remember we talked several times in the Ministry,' Harry said indifferently. 'It was nothing remarkable, though.'

'So there was no reason to expect that Zabini would bear a grudge against you? None at all?'

'Absolutely,' said Harry, looking him straight into the eyes. He would deal with his 'dear friend Blaise' himself, no doubt – but later.

'Well then,' Nott said at last. 'It could be that Malfoy was just trying to screen himself…'

'Quite possibly,' Harry nodded. 'But, of course, it does not belittle your services. I would like to congratulate you, Mr Nott. You and your Department have done really well. Just in four hours… Very, very impressive.'

'Oh, we just did what we were meant to,' Nott said, rising from his seat. 'No need to compliment us; the matter was an easy one, as I've said… And now, if you permit me, I'll leave you. You still need time to recuperate, and, of course, your wife and your friends would probably want to see you too… So, good bye, Mr Potter. I wish you a speedy recovery. Have a nice day.'

Harry replied and thanked him once again.

As the door had closed behind Nott, he allowed himself to relax at last. A social smile vanished from his face, giving way to an expression serious and even worried.

Indeed, he had to do some serious thinking.

* * *

_So, what do you think? Please, let me know!_

_to Star Mirage: I've kept my word ;)_


	9. A Time to Reflect

AN: My thanks to everyone again!

Star Mirage: well, the mental concept of 'hardcore' could be even more damaging than the real hardcore... Remember Ron ;)

ShadowDweller: yes, you are quite right about Nott. See this chapter; it's becoming clear. I really do believe that this 'clever and intelligent Slytherin'-type would go far. And the dream... we'll see later!

_This chapter_: Harry is to spend some time at _St Mungo_. Life could be really boring when you are ill - but maybe, it's a good opportunity to reflect...

* * *

**Chapter 9. A time to reflect**

So, now he knew what happened to him at the Ball. The guilty ones were identified and, no doubt, would be punished very soon. In a day or two he would recover completely and continue his investigation…

Was Harry Potter happy with that?

Surprisingly, no. Malfoy's pranks, Zabini's attempted revenge – all this did not matter much for him: they all were but minor incidents that could not have stopped him from achieving his goal.

No, the other thought was bothering him now; and his anxiety had another cause.

Theodore Nott.

The man of absolutely no importance, the person most insignificant, little by little had grown to become nearly the most powerful of Ministry's officials; and the Department of Information, founded by him, now was the department with the largest powers, superior even to such traditional 'pillar' of the Ministry as Law Enforcement.

How it all began, no one could possibly be certain at the moment. First years after the victory were the hard ones. The process of social reforming of Wizarding Society had just started and proceeded not as smoothly as everybody would like. Many young people came to the Ministry already to the positions of considerable authority – something absolutely unheard before. It was probable that Nott appeared there also at that time, though in his case the supervising post was out of the question: his father was known Death Eater who died during the Battle of Hogwarts; and that, of course, could not make the things easy for his son.

So Nott must have got one of the lowest positions then; Harry did not know which one, but suspected that it should be somehow connected with the Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Because the first time when he heard Nott's name in the context of his work at the Ministry, was precisely because of that: he was the one who had proposed the reorganization plan for their entire system of Accidental Magic Reversing. Harry remembered that because the guys from the Reversing Squad often happened to work together with Aurors; especially, when the crime was just committed, with its impact on the muggle society still to be liquidated. It was quite possible that Nott had proposed some other initiatives as well; but if he had, they all were outside Harry's professional field.

The Department of Information, which had appeared as the result of one of the Ministry's inner reformations, somehow was not connected in Harry's mind with Nott absolutely. There were too many administrative changes those days; most of them, to his opinion, purely formal. In case of the Department of Information, the main intention was to unite the similar functions of other Departments and assign them to the new Ministry subdivision. Of course, first of all that new administrative unit was to control the interactions with the Muggle society – namely, the activities that aimed to conceal the existence of Wizarding World. A proposal as good as any other; so Harry signed it without going into the root of the matter. It was about three years ago, his first-born was about to come, so he was not in the least interested in all that worthless scribbling…

With time, the new department spread up, acquiring the variety of new divisions; so that very soon the old and small rooms at Level Eight could no longer accommodate its entire staff. As a result, a year ago the administrative offices were moved to Level One, next to Minister himself – a perfect proof of the Department's grown significance; and the talks and gossips accompanying that relocation were pursuing Harry for quite a long time. Well, he chose not to pay attention even then: he rightfully believed that those inert career fights were ever present in any official structure.

They certainly had underestimated Nott, Harry thought with a belated regret. And that past mistake now put him in the role of the one being watched, rather than the one who would watch himself.

It was the Cold Factory case that put an end to his negligence at last: the thoughts of the Department could no longer remain at the periphery of his consciousness, and Harry found himself with the clear necessity to face the problem it now presented. And, as it often happens when someone was lingering for too long, he found it to be the obstacle quite impressive. Harry – rather subconsciously – delayed the time of the inevitable visit to the Department's authorities as much as he could, telling himself that he needed to better prepare for the negotiations with them. And, unfortunately, in the end that policy of procrastinating turned out to be rather faulty.

Because Nott made the first step and took the initiative in his hands – and, no doubt, he was well prepared for the conversation. It might be a task too easy for Nott, for Harry's life was an open book – but still, there were things about him that no one ever knew, and he did not want Theodore Nott to be the first to find them out.

And he came quite close to that several times, Harry admitted. First, during that 'excursion' to Slytherin's Garden – of course he understood _why _Nott had invited them there; and second, just now, during that last talk. Today it was a rather specific matter, and Nott touched it only briefly; but of course that could not fool Harry: he was almost certain that Nott knew about his deal with Blaise Zabini, and even if he did not, he would learn about it within the next few days, if not hours.

Still, even Zabini's affair did not matter that much. Nott made it quite clear: he had no intentions to press Harry – or, rather, not _yet_. But what was his plan? Were Harry's actions enough to make Nott to regard him as his enemy? Of course, Nott would reveal his true intentions sooner or later – but for now, Harry was in a complete darkness about them. All he could say for certain that Nott was playing a waiting game. All the time, he was acting with the impeccable politeness and consideration, even being met with a rather rude welcome, shown by Hermione – and perhaps also by Harry himself.

Now, there was the question of Hermione... Ah, how he wished to know what she_ really _was thinking about Nott! He was so close - if only that blasted newspaper business had not interrupted... Well, he would have another chance; Hermione would obviously return.

oxXxo

And she did return, indeed. But this time, unfortunately, not alone.

They stepped into the room together, Ron holding his wife's hand tightly. Hermione was smiling, no trace of tears in her eyes, while Ron's face possessed a somewhat curious expression: a mixture of guilt and resolution. It was clear that they made it up.

'I'm sorry, mate,' Ron said a bit awkwardly. 'I must have been a dolt, to believe all that rubbish.'

'Never mind,' Harry replied, shaking his hand. 'Though I must admit that your actions almost made me believe in all that rubbish myself… It's a joke, it's a joke, don't be afraid,' he added hastily, fearing of another burst of jealousy.

'Those pictures must be something awful, to make him behave like that,' said Hermione thoughtfully, and drew closer to Ron. 'I'm really glad that I haven't seen them.'

'And now you won't,' said Harry. 'Theodore Nott was there not long ago; he said that they destroyed the entire circulation.'

Ron nodded: 'Yes, I met him too. He explained me all that business with Malfoy. Draco Malfoy! What a son of a – Oh, sorry, Hermione. I just meant to say he won't get away with that. I asked that Nott fellow about it, and he assured me that – He said something about how they would take all necessary actions to guarantee that all guilty ones would be severely punished.'

'So you've also met Theodore Nott?' asked Hermione, slightly alerted.

Now that again, Harry thought. She was very cautious about Nott; she must know something about him…

'Yea, and why?' said Ron, who also sensed something strange in Hermione voice. 'Anything wrong with that? He just apologised and told me of that newspaper issue. Was very nice, too; for a Slytherin, I mean. Though I'd not even say he's a typical one. He didn't even try to fence that bastard Malfoy. Strange, don't you think?'

'I don't think it is strange, Ron,' said Hermione. 'As far as I know. they have never been friends. I doubt that Nott would regard any of his former classmates as his friend.'

'Indeed?' Harry asked quickly. 'And why is it so?'

He concentrated upon his memories of their Hogwarts years: no, he could not remember that any of Slytherins had been friends with Theodore Nott. He seemed to be a loner then, never taking part in stupid escapades of Malfoy and his gang. Nor was he a part of any other group. Harry forced himself to recall several occasions when Nott was talking to other students, but all it seemed to be mostly connected with their studies…

But, if Hermione even did have any explanation of that, she had no possibility to offer it, for Ron interrupted her:

'What the need to talk about that Nott, anyway,' he said. 'Better tell us how you feel, Harry. Now that I know that you've been poisoned…'

'I'm fine, Ron,' said Harry and smiled. 'I think that they'll discharge me tomorrow, no later than that.'

'Tomorrow?' repeated Hermione with visible distrust. 'But that is absolutely impossible! I've already talked with the Chief Healer, Xavier Alderton himself, and he said that you would spend here a whole week at the very least. The Draught of Darkness is a very harmful potion; despite the fact it could not be classified as "deadly". It is especially dangerous because it acts very slowly, almost on the quiet. And in your situation, when you already had those nightmares –'

'You told him?' asked Harry with clear displeasure.

'And I was right in that,' said Hermione resentfully. 'I know you, Harry. I know that you will never complain about anything yourself. You'll just sit and suffer silently, and will say that it all is not important. But this is very wrong of you, you know. The art of healing has made a tremendous step ahead for the last decade, you know. I always look through the issues of _The Healing Harmony_, by the way; so I'm familiar with the recent achievements. And the Dr Alderton I've mentioned is specialising precisely in that branch of healing that concerns your injury – the mind injuries – so he is certainly able to help you. If you only agree to write your dreams into a Pensieve –'

'_Never_,' said Harry firmly, and Hermione silenced at once.

'Well, no one is going to force you anyway,' muttered Ron, shrugging. It seemed that he was also a bit offended by Harry's harsh reply. 'You may keep being secretive as long as you like, who cares.'

'Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you,' Harry said. 'It's just too personal, that's all… And I'm not suffering in silence; it is not true. Just now, for instance, I was going to ask you of something, if I am to spend a whole week here...'

'You want to reassign that Factory case you are leading?' asked Ron. 'I can take it, if you like.'

'No, Ron, thanks, you are already doing too much, with our upcoming inspection and everything; it would be unfair to give you another case. And anyway, I don't like to pass on the responsibility; so I'm going to finish it myself. I hope I'll manage before Christmas.'

'Christmas?' Ron frowned. 'Why on earth should it take you so long? It's a plain formal inquest, the Minister told me that himself.'

'Did he?' asked Harry, clearly surprised.

Ron smiled: 'Well, didn't I say I was socializing at that damn Ball? Remember those two characters in funny hats? They were from Brazil; they're their Minister for Magic and his assistant. In fact, they came here hoping to acquire the rights for the Cold Factory project, or whatever it's called; they are planning to build a similar plant there in Brazil. They already agreed upon the conditions; but then it appeared that for the final deal approval a verdict of the Auror Office is required, and they didn't have it since the first investigation was held not by us, but by the joint Committee. So, the Minister just assigned the case back to us; and it happened that you took it. But no one ever expected you to go so deep. What for? Everything was already clear. They have integrated the new set of rules into the project, so the work discipline would be controlled much stricter than before. What else should they do?'

Harry closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. The rules, the instructions – all that meant nothing; he was sure. Well, at least, he had another reason for getting back to work as soon as possible.

'Of course, Ron,' he said. 'It was the only measure they could think of… But in fact I was going to ask you of something different. Do you still have the evidence from _Borgin&Burke's_?'

'You mean the stuff we found during the raid? I'm afraid that we have already processed the majority of it, and passed over all dangerous substances to where they belonged. But why? You needed something of them?'

'No, not exactly. I mean the things we've found in the shop itself, when old Borgin died… Do you still have them?'

Ron frowned. 'Hmm, let me think. We never examined them closely; we've just put a seal to the house. But the old man seemingly didn't have any heirs, so his possessions are to be withdrawn by the Ministry.'

'They will sell them by auction after examining in the Department of Mysteries; it's the standard procedure,' added Hermione, also interested in their talk. 'Usually it takes no more than a week. But of course all this applies only to harmless objects. I somewhat doubt that Mr Borgin had many,' she finished sceptically.

Harry smiled and said, 'There is a certain object which I would like to preserve from the auction… for some time. It is completely harmless; or at least so it seems. It looks like a usual snow-globe: a crystal ball with a model of Hogwarts inside. It's not enchanted or cursed or whatever, so don't be afraid. And I would ask you to take this snow-globe and put it in one of our evidence boxes. You must register it, of course; enter it under _Cold Factory case_ in the list.'

'Surely I will,' said Ron, slightly bewildered. 'But I don't understand why you need it, if it's just an ordinary snow-globe. And I don't see the connection with the case, either.'

'I'm not sure myself,' Harry said quite honestly. 'There is one thing I'd like to check first…' Then he dropped his voice. 'But, Ron, if you are secretly hoping to have me sacked, you may report it all to, let's say, Theodore Nott. I'm sure he will know what to do with my constant rule-breaking in that Department of Information of his.'

'And he will, no kidding,' said Ron, laughing. 'He already knows a great deal about you. I bet he even knew that you would refuse to turn the case over to me!'

'So, it was Nott who suggested it?' asked Harry sharply. 'Not you?'

'Well, he mentioned something of that, with you being ill and under stress… Not that _I_ don't care about you, you know.'

So, it seemed that Harry's worst expectations were true: Nott had already been suspecting something. And if so, there was the only option left for him: to finish the case as soon as possible.

'I never doubted that,' said Harry. 'I never doubted you. Or Hermione.' With that, he threw a meaningful glance at her.

He noticed, though, that Hermione seemed for some reason suddenly despondent. What could possibly throw her into confusion? Was it, again, his mentioning of Nott?

However it may be, she quickly recollected. 'Neither did I,' she said. 'I'm only worried about you. You think about this case too much. Probably, you indeed need to have a break; to rest for a while. You can take a month off and go somewhere with Ginny; she feels so lonely sometimes…'

Her voice was unusually uncertain, and Harry looked at Hermione with clear surprise. And as to her suggestion – since when had she started worrying so much about Ginny's feelings?

'Well, and what am I doing here if not resting from my work?' he said. 'And, by the way, during this so much anticipated holiday of mine, I wouldn't mind some _helpful reading_.'

She understood the meaning perfectly; he was sure of that.

'And it better not be some _Glamour Gaudy_ again,' said Ron suggestively.

Hermione smiled, but her smile was rather distant.

'I'll see what I can find,' she said at last.

oxXxo

Hermione kept her promise. Not even two hours had passed since their conversation when the big heavy-loaded owl came in sight. As Harry spotted her, he got out from the bed, and, still suffering from sickness and giddiness, opened the window, letting the tired bird in.

He was just in time: the poor owl collapsed rather than landed. A large brown parcel that she was holding tore apart, and no less than a dozen books fell scattered all over the room. Harry looked at them, slightly frightened. Was Hermione really hoping that he would read all those enormously-sized volumes? Then he noticed a slip of paper, lying on the floor among the books, and picked it up.

It was a letter from Hermione, and a quite long-winded one:

_Harry,_

_Sorry that I am sending you only part of the books you will need to study, but Pigwidgeon just refused to lift even a one book more. These ones are the first you might chose to read, anyway; so I will send the rest of them later._

_I suggest that you start with _Encyclopaedia Magica, vol. 12_. See the article on Liquid Time; it will give you the general overview of the problem. Then, if you are interested in historical and social background of the time period when it was created, see _TheHistory of Magic in Britain, vol_. _79_ (Grindelwald Wars). Or, if it is rather scientific aspects that are of main interest to you, look through those issues of _The Transfiguration Today_, _The Practising Potioneer_ and _The Annual Alchemy Almanac_ I have selected. They should form the basis for further study._

_Then, since you would probably like look into the issue of Liquid Time production, I would recommend _The Dreadful Documents: Legacy of Dark Lords of the Past_. I know that it is not an obvious choice; not to mention that the nature of the book itself is controversial, to say the least. But you have probably heard that the project of The Liquid Time Factory was based on the works of Gellert Grindelwald – well, after reading this book you will know to what extent it is true. Only, I would ask you not to show this book to anyone, and not to tell that you have received it from me._

_And, at last, I have chosen some books that will help you to understand the various views on the nature of Liquid Time and similar substances per se. I am mentioning them last because they cannot be called purely 'scientific' in the main sense of its word. Some of them are just tales and legends (such as _Elder Edda_ or the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_); some are of rather philosophical nature (such as _TheGreat Parting_); some are even political pamphlets (sorry, those were in the book that Pigwidgeon refused to pick up). You may be surprised that I am recommending you all those books, perhaps – well, I know that in your case they would be probably less necessary, but still, sometimes it may be quite helpful to learn about historical and cultural view of the problem in a more general sense. _

_I think that is all for today, Harry. I wish you to get well soon._

_Oh, and let poor Pigwidgeon have a good rest._

_Love,_

_Hermione_.

_P.S. Ron sends you his regards. He tells you not to overdo yourself._

Below, there were some lines of less tidy Ron's handwriting:

_You must be mad, to read all those bloody books! Tell Hermione you're not really serious about them. I told her you wanted just some easy reading, but she wouldn't listen!_

And after that, author changed again:

_P.P.S. Never mind Ron. I personally think that they are quite an easy reading. Certainly those few books could do you no harm. Only _be careful_._

_H._

Harry was still standing with that letter in his hand among the picturesquely scattered books, looking around absentmindedly, when the door opened – it seemed that he had yet another visitor.

This time, it was Ginny.

oxXxo

'Ginny!' he exclaimed and dropped the letter.

For a moment, she hesitated at the threshold, looking at the interior with a clear bewilderment. But then she made several steps ahead and folded Harry in her arms. He hesitated for a moment and then embraced her too; and for a minute, then they just stood there, unmoving, not telling a word.

'I was so worrying about you!' she said at last, as he let her go. 'I was there, in the next wing, when this man from the Ministry told me…'

'I'm fine,' said Harry. 'Everything is all right. Don't you see it? I don't know what that man told you, but there is absolutely no need to worry now.'

'Then I met Ron; he said that Malfoy poisoned you with some fancy potion. Mother was so terrified; she didn't know what to do. But she couldn't leave Mod at the moment… Oh, and everything is well with her and her baby… It's a boy, you know. George is so happy. Have you heard those fireworks at three in the morning?'

'No,' he shook his head. 'I was still unconscious.'

'Well, they were George's doing. We could hardly make him quiet; he was so excited. Only when mum said that baby Fred needed to sleep he settled at last… So now everything is fine,' she looked at him again, 'except from that terrible thing they did to you… I can't believe it. How he even dared, that stinker? At the official reception, were so many people were watching…'

'I think it was just a stupid joke that went further than he planned,' answered Harry cautiously. He didn't want to tell Ginny the entire story with that newspaper. 'So everything is all right with the baby and his mother?' he repeated, not sure what to say next.

Ginny nodded. Only now Harry noticed that she was indeed very pale and that she even had dark rings under her eyes. Maybe, Ron was right, and she was indeed becoming seriously ill. She should visit a healer then, he thought, and then recalled that they were already in the Hospital.

'But how did you get here in the first place? I know that you were at _St Mungo's _even before they brought me here. You came with your mother, to help Mod, didn't you?'

Ginny was deliberately omitting his gaze.

'Oh, it's just by chance… I was here to see the healer because of that sickness…'

'Anything serious?' he asked.

She breathed out and dropped her eyes.

'Ginny?' he repeated. 'What's wrong?'

'And what are all these books?' she said, ignoring his question. 'Have you robbed Hogwarts' library, by chance?'

His first thought was to tell her that he needed them for the case he was investigating at the moment, but he refrained from the confession: he knew that Ginny was already very upset with him always being busy at work. He could not help this at the moment, and so there was no need to embarrass her again.

'Oh, that's nothing,' he said lightly. 'Hermione sent them to me in order to keep me busy during the time I'm to stay here.'

'And for how long it will be?' Ginny was clearly uneasy, and Harry noted how she frowned on his mentioning of Hermione's name.

'For a weak or so… Damn, and precisely at the time when I have so much to do!'

'That case? You haven't finished it yet?'

Oh, Merlin, Harry thought. Not another talk on how he was married to his job.

'There are still a few loose ends,' he replied, trying to sound light-heartedly. 'But I hope I'll get clear with it before Christmas.'

'It'll take you so long?' Ginny's face fell. But then she composed herself and became very determined. 'Harry,' she said coolly. 'It just can't go on like this.'

'I've _said _that I'll finish it before Christmas, Gin. I cannot abandon it, you know.'

She folded her hands and answered, still avoiding his gaze: 'It's not only that case, Harry. It's not even all those cases you led, and not all those scoundrels and dark wizards you've caught. It's about _you_; and you alone.'

Harry knew that her resentment was brewing for a while, and – no need to deny – he felt himself rather guilty. Of course, Ginny could not understand the true nature of his work; and so his devotion could have appeared to her just as an annoying oddity. Several times, Harry would try to explain how he felt about his job as an Auror and why he had to dedicate himself to his investigations the way he did – and Ginny always agreed with him; but he was well aware that deep in her heart she had not quite accepted it. So today's talk was inevitable; only that – again, how _untimely_ it was!

'We could go somewhere after New Year, if you like,' he said, already knowing that nothing would come of it.

'After New Year? Do you remember that you have promised me the same thing after Halloween? Not? And before, you said that your birthday was the 'turning point'? And even earlier, it was Beltane? Harry, I understand everything. I understand that your work is very important. I understand that it is just unthinkable to let all those former Death Eaters hanging around free. I understand that the world is full of evil mages and dangerous beasts and Merlin knows what. I only don't understand why you think that it is you alone – and none other than _you_ – is a man who destined to vanquish them all. Harry, the earth won't stop spinning if you let yourself a little of your own life, you know. So why do you always act as though it will? You give me your promises; your tomorrows; but I'm tired of tomorrows. I just want to live a normal, human life – oh my, is it so much that I ask?'

'But I thought that we had a normal life,' Harry said quietly. 'I really want to spend more time with you, Ginny – it's just that I not always can. But when I can, I always come to you and to our boys.'

'No, Harry, this is not a normal life. How could it be called normal? A long ago, you told me that your life weren't fully yours. Well, if back then you indeed weren't allowed to have your own life – then why, Harry, why you can't have it now? Sometimes I even think that, deep in our soul, you are still fighting Voldemort. That you still haven't come over it. But your battle has been won already; so stop fighting at last. Ten years have passed, Harry, ten years; it's _over_!'

Her voice was growing louder and louder with every word, and she finished almost with a scream.

'Ginny,' Harry began, but stopped on the instant – because Ginny suddenly turned very pale, almost ashen white, and leaned against the wall, trying not to collapse. Harry rushed to her and seized her arms, not letting her fall to the floor; but he forgot that he was very weak himself – so he did not help Ginny, but instead they slipped down together.

'Ginny,' he said, almost in horror. 'You are very, very ill. I'll call for help.'

She forced a smile and, for the first time, looked straight into his eyes.

'No, Harry. I'm fine.'

No, of course she was not fine, Harry thought, at the edge of panic. And it was his mistake, and his only, to let it come to this. Suddenly, a weird idea came to his mind: what if Ginny was right? What if he indeed was slowly going mad? But he drove the malicious thought away on the instant. He had no right to think like that. Certainly there was still hope to change it all, to persuade Ginny that –

But, before he had managed to collect his thoughts, she said:

'Harry, I'm having a baby.'

For several moments, he was looking at her with some sort of a confused bewilderment.

And then suddenly, as if someone pushed him, he became aware of the surroundings – but somehow he saw it all almost from a distance, with a queer air of detachedness. The window, still opened, the white day behind it, the blue ceiling and tinkling clouds; and he and Ginny were sitting at the floor of the _St Mungo's_ ward, all kinds of books lying scattered around them; and then Pigwidgeon-the-owl was stirring at the top of the bedside table, prinking its feathers with a concentration that was amazing in its seriousness…

And then, he burst out laughing.

* * *

_Well, StarMirage, you were right. But that was an easy guess. I bet you don't know who's blown up the Factory! He-he..._

_Thank you everyone - and review, pretty-pretty please._

_Next chapter: Hermione's 'easy reading', and – alas – a lot of it._


	10. Some Useful Reading

AN: Greetings to all my readers! I'm very sorry that this update took so long. I was facing the writer's block, sort of. I rewrote this chapter three times (now already four times :), but still am not pleased with it. Probably the reason is that I needed to write about some rather dry stuff here, with no dialogues and no action; Harry is just reading and thinking. But it just had to be written; it's important for later. So for the moment, let's consider this a beta version of chapter 10 ;) The next chapter, when Harry goes out from the hospital, will be easier. I hope.

And my special thanks to all who reviewed, for their kind support: Star Mirage, ShadowDweller, Noc007, Davek86.

StarMirage: nice guesses, all of them! Any other options? ;)

Davek86: I think Ginny would forgive Harry's laughing this time. But overall, she is very upset with him and with his attitude towards her.

ShadowDweller: Hmm, not a new pairing, but maybe a possibility… As to your second question: Dumbledore's appearance is planned! Because any HP-book needs somebody with 'and now, Harry, I'll explain you everything' - line ;)

* * *

**Chapter 10. ****Some Useful Reading**

Three or four days of studying Hermione's books did not bring Harry Potter the enlightenment he had sought: on the contrary, now, he felt as if he knew even less than before.

The nature of time was a mystery by itself, and, as Harry understood while flipping through numerous scientific articles, a mystery that still remained unveiled. Aside from long and cumbersome words, most of the modern studies added little to the understanding of the essence of Time. So, as soon as this had become clear for Harry, he moved on to the sources maybe less pretentious, but which, despite their lack of seriousness, still might have provoked some very non-trivial thoughts.

He started with _Elder Edda_, which, judging from the lack of pictures in it and the long-winded academic comments after each paragraph, ought to be more solid and trustworthy than just any other fairy-tale. But unfortunately, the book appeared almost incomprehensible and weird to the degree that made it nearly impossible to read. Nevertheless, Harry forced himself through some of its pages after he spotted the word 'wellspring', that caught his attention because Zabini also had mentioned some sort of 'a well' as a natural source of Liquid Time.

The well of the legend had the strange name of The Well of Wyrd, or 'the well of destiny', and it was one of the three springs that washed the roots of the World Tree Yggdrasil. Three norns, the rulers of fate, dwelled there, and they watered the tree every day with the water from that wellspring, so that its branches would not rot. There were two more wellsprings, lying beneath other roots, with the names equally obscure: they were called The Well of Mimir and the Well of Hvergelmir. Each of those springs might be an allegorical alias for the real source of Liquid Time, but the book, being a mere collection of old pagan songs, gave no further information that could have either confirmed or refuted this guess.

_The Tales of Beedle the Bard_, when compared to _Elder Edda_, appeared to Harry as the epitome of logic and common sense, and they could have even provided him with a sort of entertainment, if only his search had not had another purpose. So Harry had studied the book in the most serious manner, trying to spot any references to the concept he was interested in. And his thoroughness did not remain unrewarded, for those references could be seen in abundance.

The most clear of them was presented in _The Tale of Two Waters_, which told of two pet birds, a raven and a dove, who were trying to resurrect their late master with the help of some magic substances called the Water of Death and the Water of Life. The first one, as the tale had it, could make the things 'whole again'; while the second could 'breathe the spirit into the cold ones'. The waters certainly reversed the process of life, just as Liquid Time did; so there was a strong probability that one of them (or both) was some ancient derivative of Liquid Time. But then again, nothing in the tale implied that those waters really existed.

Generally speaking, the same was true for all those fairy-tales and legends: they were of little use when it came to the real facts. Instead of that, offered to an inquisitive reader a lot of very imaginative ideas as to the nature of the possible predecessors of Liquid Time.

For example, Harry had learned about the magic wine of fairies, which made the time move faster for the unfortunate peasants who were lured to drink it, and so when they returned home after dancing all night at fairish balls, they found that many years had passed, and that all their loving ones were long dead. Also, he had become familiar with the legend about the mythical Spring of Eternal Youth, which was rumoured to be situated somewhere in the virgin woods of South America, but which in fact had never been found – this may be as well be the source of Liquid Time he was searching for… Those were only two of the examples; and there were plenty of others as well, enough to satisfy any demand possible. All those vivid images had only one flaw: they were mere allegories and had nothing to do with reality.

So, after several quite pleasant hours that Harry had spent at studying the tales and legends, he moved to the matters more prosaic – namely, to history.

And here, to his surprise, he found that the 'cold bare facts' were not-so-bare and definitely not cold. It appeared that Liquid Time, which Harry considered to be just one of many other magic inventions, even if a very important one, in fact had a great symbolical meaning that even superseded its purely practical significance. Moreover, it seemed that the recent history of Liquid Time, being influenced by various social, cultural, and political events of the most memorable years of wizarding history, was a tale no less dramatic than some of the best writings of the abovementioned Beedle the Bard.

oxXxo

That Liquid Time was Grindelwald's invention had become recently a rumour so common that Harry was indeed very surprised to learn that this rumour, in fact, was not true at all.

_The Encyclopaedia Magica_ clearly stated that the honour of boiling of the first cauldron of Liquid Time belonged to a very young British half-blood witch by the name of Dorcas Meadowes, who made this groundbreaking invention at the age of no more than twenty, working as a trainee in the Department of Mysteries after her graduation from Hogwarts - where she, quite predictably, was a student of Ravenclaw House - in nineteen forty-five. It was notable that Meadowes' graduation project was supervised by none other than Albus Dumbledore himself, a very famous alchemist who had conquered dark mage Grindelwald earlier that year. It should be also noted that there were some rumours later that accused Meadowes of stealing this invention, since Dumbledore allegedly had shown her Grindelwald's old papers from which she just borrowed her ideas – but then the Encyclopaedia stated that those accusations were no more than empty gossips, for in Grindelwald's papers there was no mentioning of anything at least similar to Liquid Time.

Dorcas Meadowes, it seemed, was indeed a very prominent scientist: she made her career in the Department of Mysteries rather quickly, having raised to the position of the Head of the Division by nineteen fifty-one and, subsequently, to the position of the Head of the entire Department in nineteen sixty. She did not betray her interests, and all those years, the problems of Time remained in the focus of her research. She even founded a special group for deep studying of Liquid Time – according to Encyclopaedia, namely in a hope to work out how to produce it in large amounts. And here Harry learned another very interesting detail: it appeared that two other members of that research group were Lucretia Lovegood, a quite resourceful witch from the Experimental Charms, and a certain Herbert Rosier, who, as they said, once worked at the infamous Grindelwald's Laboratories.

At precisely that stage of their research, as _Dreadful Documents:_ _The Legacy of Dark Lords of the Past_ stated ominously, some workings of Gellert Grindelwald were indeed very thoroughly considered.

Such a hypocrisy it was, the author continued, that Grindelwald, being known as an ardent muggle-hater who put all his life in preventing so-called 'lesser-beings', Muggles, from intervening into Wizarding Society and wizards' affairs, had not a single objection when it came to mages' borrowing some useful Muggle inventions. Moreover, he encouraged those kinds of adoption with the passion surpassing that of the most eager muggle-lovers. 'If we can't take what is of use to us, how are we better than them?' Grindelwald was supposedly saying. And his 'takings' were, in a sense, quite successful: his Laboratories were rumoured to be full of various Muggle-created devices; they were almost a factory on their own. That was the main reason encouraging to see Grindelwald's works as a unique source of inspiration for every researcher who was trying to incorporate Muggle inventions into traditional witchcraft practises.

Thus, the author concluded, while the initial idea of Liquid Time synthesizing might belong to Meadowes, almost all technological aspects of the production process should have been rightly attributed to Grindelwald.

'Now, what a surprise,' Harry thought ironically. To everyone, the idea of Grindelwald being interested in anything Muggle-ish was really innovative and even queer. Because it seemed that Grindelwald, much as he loathed Muggles, did not object Muggle technology at all; he even claimed it to be an achievement worth adopting. He must have been really shocked to learn how popular some of his beliefs had become during the last few years, Harry said to himself.

Though, it was still not quite clear why the interest in Muggle science had awoken only recently. As far as Harry could remember, wizards were never seriously interested in muggle-ish way of life. Even the most curious and open-minded of Harry's acquaintances, such as Xenophilius Lovegood or Arthur Weasley, saw Muggle inventions as mere fancy toys, and no more than that.

Could it be that the reason for so prolonged alienation of anything connected with Muggle technology was a reaction to Grindelwald's obsession with it? Harry personally believed that this assumption was oversimplified, but for the book's author it sounded quite plausible; and it also provided a plausible explanation of the sad fact that all Muggle inventions were seen as 'taboo' long time after the fall of Grindelwald.

Anyway, now it seemed that Meadowes and her colleagues were the first, if not the only ones, who succeeded in breaking this silent prohibition. Though their research might not have had a warm welcome in the wizarding community, they were not discouraged by it. According to the book, by the middle of seventies, the group had almost achieved its goal. It was impossible to know for certain now, but all pointed to the fact that the most complex calculations had been already finished, and even that some mock-up models had been built. Only one small step separated them from a total success. But unfortunately, the group was not able to complete the project at that time – due to circumstances most unfavourable, though quite predictable.

Because at that very moment, all of a sudden, Dorcas Meadowes resigned from her post and left the Department forever, after thoroughly destroying all her working notes and blueprints. Her group was disbanded; its members remained in the Department, but soon returned to their own projects that had nothing to do with Liquid Time at all. One could only guess what the reason for such an unexpected decision had been, the book said mysteriously, and then eagerly proposed its own explanation, stating that Meadowes was simply afraid that the results of her research would be of great interest to Voldemort, the most dangerous dark mage of the century, whose rise to power had already begun; and so she probably had gone into hiding, no more sure in her own safety. And she had all rights to do so, because Voldemort got to her at last – 'acting with the sort of uncompromising yet inventive cruelty that marked all his deeds', as the author stated picturesquely.

As Harry had read that passage, the last part of the mosaic found its place in his mind. 'It's Dorcas Meadowes, You-Know-Who killed her personally …' he recalled Alastor Moody's words, and the old magic photography of the First Order of Phoenix appeared in his memory as clear as if he had seen it just yesterday. So _that _was it, Harry thought. Poor Meadowes. But then, she was by no means the only one on that picture who died in that war. By far not the only one...

…For him, it was hard to suppress the memories of those days – too many losses, too much darkness – but after a couple of minutes, Harry returned to his reading. He wondered what happened to Meadowes' ideas after she was killed, and what became of each of her co-workers. _The Legacy of Dark Lords _had little to say on that matter, so Harry switched to the _Encyclopaedia_ again.

Alas, only few scarce sentences described all that happened next. It seemed that after Voldemort's first demise in eighty-one Herbert Rosier, now the Head of The Experimental Charms Division, had returned to Liquid Time project and invited Lucretia Lovegood to help him, as she did before. This time, however, the process was much harder, probably because they were deprived of Meadowes' guidance, and was accompanied by a sequence of rather dangerous incidents. The most terrible of them had cost Lucretia Lovegood her life. No one could be sure about the nature of the experiment she had performed, because the only witness of it was Lucretia's nine-year-old daughter. 'And this is the reason why Luna could see thestrals,' Harry mumbled to himself darkly. 'I wonder what _else_ she could remember.'

Lucretia Lovegood's death was a fatal blow for both her family and her co-workers. After that, Herbert Rosier had ceased his work on the project for more than ten years. It seemed that only the general euphoria followed the Great Victory over Voldemort forced him to reconsider his decision – at least, none of the books Harry had read could provide him with better explanation.

oxXxo

'So it's Lovegood again,' he thought numbly, staring at peaceful golden clouds at the ceiling – an occupation that had already bored him to stiff.

But at the moment it was all he could do. The procedures Dr Alderton prescribed had brought him some relief, but he still had those qualms when he had been reading for more than an hour. The Chief Healer upbraided him for refusing to do a Memory Therapy, but Harry was recalcitrant in his decision. Somehow he knew that it would not help him much.

But even without this Therapy, he was undoubtedly recovering: he noticed that now it was much easier for him to control himself when Molly or Ginny were visiting: no matter how annoying their talks may be sometimes, he never allowed himself to act strangely or impolitely. Enough that Ginny was almost frightened by his weird reaction to the news she had brought. Certainly he had no excuse for behaving like that, and Harry blamed himself constantly. Luckily, he was certain that nothing of the kind would happen again; he made sure of it.

The nightmares had not ceased, but at least became bearable. The dream of cold Halloween forest and of woman with grape was persistent, but Harry did not try to fight his visions anymore as he had done before. Now, he was trying to decipher them instead. There certainly must be some deep meaning in those images, probably, even something that was connected to the investigation he currently was leading. The grim forest of his nightmares was not unlike the forest near Cold Waters, after all. His fear and despair was also quite understandable. But what he utterly failed to understand was the grape.

Some of the legends he read did mention the grape as the symbol of perseverance, and it rather well matched the words his mother was saying in that dream. He only did not see the connection with his present situation. Certainly it was not Liquid Time in the glass she was forcing him to drink. He was not even sure whether grapes were used in Liquid Time making. But if it was not Liquid Time – what possibly could it be then? Maybe the part of a protection charm she used when he was a baby? Hmm, from his numerous talks with Dumbledore he had somewhat figured out that it must have been the charm of another kind…

However it might be, all those hypotheses about Liquid Time and its making, heavily loaded with symbolism, were something he would like to discuss with Hermione. But unfortunately, since that very first day, she never visited him again, and only asked Ron to give Harry her warmest regards. 'She is very busy in the Ministry now,' Ron said with an apologetic smile. 'Even had to stay there overnight yesterday, she did. Never thought that old Robards would be giving her such a hard time!'

Harry smiled in response, thinking that of course the matter was not in Gawain Robards, their boss, who currently was occupying the post of the Head of the Law Enforcement Department. No, there must be something other; something quite different and maybe disturbing; and Harry was almost sure that, whatever that mysterious business that kept Hermione away from him would be, Theodore Nott was somehow involved in it.

He sent Hermione an owl, thanking her for the books and asking for the others she had not sent earlier. Upon some consideration, Harry even added a post-scriptum to his letter, asking her to come to see him in the words almost imperative; he knew that such an unusual request would not have gone unnoticed by Hermione. But alas, she did not come. She did not even send him the remaining books, which surprised him the most. Certainly, something there was very wrong …

So, Harry was left with nothing but the growing desire to get out of the clinic as soon as possible, and take the affairs into his own hands. He had already permitted himself to delay for too long, and now his time for reflection was over. While it was definitely interesting to learn how Liquid Time was invented, for him, it was much more important to find out who had destroyed the factory, and why.

To say the truth, Harry thought that he already might know the answer to the question _why_.

The desire to harm the entire British Wizarding society was the most evident reason, but that possibility had been checked long ago by the first Committee of Investigation. Harry thought that there was no serious foundation to this version.

On the contrary, all his observations, along with that recent reading, had been pushing him to another assumption: that not the factory itself had been targeted, but the 'evil Muggle ways' that were lying in its foundation.

Dazzled by the happiness of the first post-war years, Harry and his friends did not notice that, despite Voldemort and his active supporters had been gone, overall social mood underwent only a little change. That, of course, was easy to explain. The conservative trends in their society, which revealed themselves primarily through the distrust to Muggles, had been growing for centuries, and for the last thousand years, the disposition towards 'non-magic people' had never been favourable. It certainly was very clever of Voldemort to use that general prejudice in his rise to power – just as it would be silly of Harry to suggest that this prejudice could vanish just in few months and only because Voldemort was gone forever. Ah, if only it was that easy! But unfortunately, the common attitude to Muggles had become widespread long before that ill-fated Riddle was even born.

In a way that was almost paradoxical, that attitude co-existed with an increasing adoption of external attributes of Muggle lifestyle, more and more with every coming year. Indeed, if seventy years ago Grindelwald Laboratories must have been considered a fancy extravaganza of a mad genius, nowadays, the ever-growing use of various achievements of muggle science was seen as unquestionable evidence of progress – and in that, a progress of Wizarding Society itself. Truth be said, the majority of Wizarding people seemed to not even care much about the origin of all those inventions, taking them for granted.

The majority, but not all.

The undercurrent of dissatisfaction might be not as noticeable as the mad raids of the fanatics, but somehow it was no less influential. To think of it - just recently, almost every one of those people whom Harry met during his investigation had complained, in one form or the other, how incredibly foul and loathsome those Muggle ways were. It was Slopey's 'the thing just was made to blow up'; it was Zabini's 'we will soon be forgetting how to hold a wand'; it was old Borgin's 'they do not understood the nature of magic'…

Was this nothing but the most common sort of Wizarding snobbism? In his younger years, Harry would have certainly believed in that himself, but now, he began to understand that the matter was not as simple. Why, if even the very decent people were not completely free of that kind of an attitude - if Dumbledore himself was not a stranger to it... Perhaps, it was because his old professor also knew that the true origin of this snobbism lay not in the purity of magic blood or the prowess in magic arts, but in something very different.

Probably, Harry's painful sensitiveness to that issue was the reason that he had succeeded in seeing the danger where others had failed. Borgin was complaining about the great Chill that was coming to take them all, about the emptiness that was consuming the world; well, Harry not only understood him, but also saw what the old man could not. Mages themselves had brought this emptiness, and this shallowness, and this cold to their world; the world that identified magic with might – or, rather, might with magic; the world that had grown to believe that the only difference that mattered was not between Good and Evil, and not between Darkness and Light – but between being Wizard and being Muggle.

'They do not understand it; they'll pay for it dearly,' Harry whispered. And they shall, indeed. It would not be the very first time when wizards would pay for their ignorance. Harry could only hope that he would prevent the worst from happening… He smiled at that pathetic thought: maybe, Ginny was not so wrong after all when she said that he was acting as if the Earth was spinning because of him. But the truth was that he was always doing just as much as he should; no more, no less.

And now, this 'should' meant that he must see Ollivander. Without speaking to him, he could not be sure what to do next.

* * *

_Next chapter: Harry is out of St Mungo, at last__…_


	11. In the Ministry

_AN: _Hi, it's me again. Sorry for long delay: some RL-issues prevent me from writing at the time being. I'm still going to finish this immortal masterpiece of mine, but the updates won't be regular, I'm afraid. Thank you for your patience!

_StarMirage_: No, no punch-in-the-face stuff till the end of Part I. Sorry. And yes, the 'big baddy' was – or was mentioned – in the story already. Not much of a revelation, given that nearly everyone was mentioned. So your guesses are welcome ;)

_This Chapter_: Harry is back at work. He becomes familiar with the recent changes in the security system… and also overhears quite an interesting conversation.

* * *

**Chapter 11. ****In the Ministry**

'Now, look who's here? Welcome back, Harry!'

Unsurprisingly, Ron was the first to greet him as Harry had entered the Auror Offices the next Monday – if not fully recovered, then at least very eager to continue his work.

Harry's colleagues – those few who were at the offices and not at field work – joined Ron in their congratulations. Harry had already heard out a good number of 'oh, Mr Potter, we are so happy that you are back' and suffered his due share of friendly hugs on the way there: he knew many people in the Law Enforcement personally, and, unsurprisingly, even larger number of them knew him. Not to mention that all those youngsters from various departments, all sorts of trainees, assistants and secretaries, most of them complete strangers to him, now were congratulating him with an enormous enthusiasm – as if he had spent those days not on the sick bed, but instead on some great quest, vanquishing just another dark lord or performing the deeds of no lesser grandeur.

Harry had politely replied to all those greetings and friendly jokes; tasted the huge 'welcome-back' cherry pie, at the same time looking through all important personal correspondence that had come while he was ill – and, at last, noticed with great relief that the public attention towards his person had diminished to the usual level.

Then he turned to Ron again.

'Well, I think it's time to do some work at last, since I've eaten all the pies and cookies you brought me… And by the way – about this thing I asked you to put in the evidence box, the snow- globe, you haven't forgot?'

'Ah, that one. Of course I remember,' Ron answered. 'Here's the key, take it. I did not seal it with the usual charm because now they're wand-sensitive, the locks there, I mean.'

'Wand-sensitive?' Harry repeated in surprise, pocketing the small ornate key.

'Yea, it means you can open them only with your own wand, the one you registered, and personally. The recent directive, you know. There was such turmoil down there in the Wizengamot services when they put it in force; certainly all those old hags were not happy, to need go into the Archives themselves… I've seen them down there – man, some are really ancient. Haven't seen a simple photo-camera in their lives! Such a noise they made, with their ohs and ahs –'

'They refused to have their pictures taken?'

'Just imagine – one old woman said that it would steal her soul. Such stupid superstitions those old warlocks have… Think of it: a photo-camera, taking away your soul!' Ron pulled a face. 'But now it's all settled; they calmed down at last… The new wand-checker down there, he's another story. He's such a bore, I tell you; did not want to let me in! You may not put anything in Mr Potter's box, blah-blah-blah, you have to wait for Mr Potter to come back, blah-blah-blah and so on. I said that you'd asked me yourself; I said that I was your friend; I said I was also investigating that case – all in vain…'

'But you did persuade him in the end, didn't you?' Harry interrupted, impatient to hear the outcome of the story.

Ron laughed. 'Yes. But the credit is not mine. You should thank our new wanna-be-friend Nott for that.'

'Theodore Nott saw you there?' Harry asked quickly. 'What did he need from you?' It would be quite unfortunate if Ron had brought Nott's attention to the globe... Especially now, when he still was not completely sure…

'Well, I must confess it was not by accident,' said Ron, 'because I raised quite a clamour there, so maybe they just sent for him to settle the matter… Or maybe he simply was passing by… Or needed to put something in the Vaults himself… I don't know. Anyway, he came and talked sense into that blockhead of his. He said that since you were in hospital you certainly couldn't know the last procedures, and that nothing bad would happen if they postponed the proper authorization till you came out. So the bloke gave me that key – ah, if you only could see his mug! – and here you are, the globe is in the box.'

Those new authorization rules seemed to Harry as too much. Wand identifying could be explained, though he personally thought that was too excessive a measure; but why to make pictures of visitors? And why did they decide to implement those new authorization rules right now, when seemingly nothing serious was happening that could have justified such severity? Then again, Nott… Harry did not believe even for a moment that he had appeared there by chance. He must have been watching Ron, just as he had been watching Hermione – there could be no doubt in it – and just was he was probably watching Harry himself.

He sighed: it seemed that soon there would not be a single aspect of his life where Theodore Nott would not have interfered. He could only hope that Nott had not managed to find out too much yet.

'Tell me, Ron,' he said, 'did Nott ask you what you were trying to do there? Did you show him the snow-globe?'

Ron scratched his head. 'Hmm, I think I did. Don't remember if he was asking… Maybe he was not. I just showed it to him and said something like "see, it's not a bomb", and that's all. And why?' He looked at Harry with sudden alarm. 'I should not have? What's so special about that toy, anyway?'

'I'm not completely sure yet,' said Harry, not willing to go deeper into the matter. 'I was going to check it myself.'

'Show it to the experts, will you?'

'Maybe, but not to ours. I want it to be intact in the end, you know. And our guys tend to be really good in taking things apart.'

'Yea, that's true,' said Ron with a smile, but then stopped and struck his forehead. 'Almost forgot! The authorization! You have not done it yet, haven't you? So you must see Robards, he'll explain you the procedure. Oh, and the old man was asking about you every day; said that he needed to speak to you as soon as possible.'

'Anything important?'

'Don't think so. It's probably about our inspection in December. Or maybe he just wants to make sure that you are alive, don't know. Or maybe the Ministry is planning some fancy soiree where you'll be giving just another one of those tear-jerking speeches of yours – all right, man, calm down, I'm joking, I'm joking, don't you see?'

Harry made a face. 'It better be a joke,' he said in a voice most sinister, 'because next time, I'll kill anyone who'll make me wear glasses to be recognisable…' Then he became serious and rose from his seat. 'All right, Ron. I'm off to see Robards then.'

'And when will you be back? I was going to discuss the inspection routes with the guys today – shall we wait for you?'

Harry was already at the door. 'Wait for me?' He considered it for a moment. 'No, no need, Ron. It may take a long time: I have a lot of things to do up there.'

oxXxo

To say the truth, Harry was not completely sincere with his friend. Many of the things he was interested in were not 'up there', but rather 'down there', and before seeing his boss, he decided to take care of some of those things.

At first, he went to the Vaults, wondering if the new procedure was as awful as Ron had described and secretly believing that his friend was over-exaggerating.

It all began rather smoothly. The receptionists, a sullen young lad, had measured his wand without a single question and entered some numbers into a very impressive-looking device, which looked to Harry as a hybrid of a huge Pensieve and a muggle cash register. Then he studied the symbols that appeared on the small screen on the top of the device and frowned.

'Anything wrong?' asked Harry, who was observing the procedure with candid curiosity.

'No, it's all right,' said the receptionist, quickly pressing some keys that made the message on the screen vanish. 'But it seems you haven't been authorized yet, Mr Potter. So I'm afraid we'll need to check something before you can access the contents of your box. Because… Not that we suspect you, of course, but – well, you see, there might be – in theory – some chance that…' The receptionist became confused and stopped.

'You'd like to be sure that it is really me?' specified Harry. 'No need to worry; I understand. I heard you had to take some pictures, right?'

'Not exactly. The pictures won't help us if you're not authorized,' said the receptionists and pointed out a hand-shaped hollow on the counter. 'Put your wand hand there, please, and hold it still for a minute.'

Harry did as he was told, and after a moment felt a soft pricking at the palm. At first it was rather pleasant, but soon his hand began itching unmercifully.

At last he could stand it no more. 'How long will it take?' he asked.

'Just a few more moments,' muttered the receptionists, studying the fast-moving rows of symbols that were popping up on the screen of that strange Pensieve-like device. 'You aren't sleeping well, are you, Mr Potter?'

'What?' Harry gave a start and drew his hand back.

'Oh, sorry, I didn't want to embarrass you… No, no need to put the hand there; I've already finished.'

Harry cast a suspicious glance at the mysterious apparatus.

'I hope that at least it can't read my thoughts,' he said.

'No, it can't.' It seemed that the receptionist was almost disappointed with that. 'Mainly we use it for checking if someone was Polyjuiced or Imperioed or enchanted in some other way. You see, it measures and analyses a lot of characteristics. Emotional state, reaction to the moon-phase, in-born type of magic, then the blood status…'

'Even the blood status?'

'We don't call it that, of course; but the proper name is too complicated, so we use this one instead…' Suddenly the receptionist became alarmed. 'You see, in fact I'm not supposed to tell you about all that, Mr Potter…'

Harry smiled diplomatically. 'But of course. Then I think we better move to our business. You've obtained all the necessary proof that me is me, I presume?'

'Oh, yes.' The receptionist entered yet another line of symbols into this wonderful Identifying Machine – and a small steel box appeared on the counter as if from nowhere. Harry took out the key Ron had left him and was about to open the box, but then stopped and asked:

'This new system is impressive, of course… and your machine is just amazing. But I don't understand why not to use, say, the Revealing Charm for the identification? It would be much easier that way. And why not let the visitors close the boxes with their personal seals, as it used to be before?'

The young receptionist was truly perplexed with this question.

'Easier? You must be joking, Mr Potter. This Revealing Charm may be easy, I don't know – but the new system does not require a single spell at all! Can you imagine anything as simple? And it provides a much higher level of security than any of these home-made locks… Besides, who can cast a proper seal nowadays, anyway? A few ancient warlocks and some history-obsessed freaks; that's all. I myself cannot do it either – and I never worried, because it's completely unnecessary. We are not in the nineteenth century, thanks Merlin; _we are making progress_, after all.'

'I see,' said Harry laconically. He did not share the receptionist's vision of a 'simpler solution', but was not going to argue with him either. In any case, the true reason why that new security system was implemented had probably nothing to do either with progress or with simplicity… So Harry just opened the lock and took the snow-globe out from the box. Luckily, nothing else was required of him here.

He put the globe in his pocket and left the Vaults, heading to the lifts in the end of the hallway. He checked his watch: there was still a plenty of time, so he thought that now it could be a good opportunity to visit the Department of Mysteries. No one knew when he had a chance the next time, with this entire authorization thing; and besides, he was a half-way down already.

The lift-car was almost empty – it was nearly lunchtime, and the majority of the Ministry's workers were heading up – so, aside from Harry, there were only two unknown to him ageing wizards in boring grey robes. They briefly looked at him as he entered and resumed their conversation.

'…and that's why I think they won't shut us down. It's a pure political suicide, Marius, believe me, for the one who will give such an order,' the younger of the two was saying.

'Phew. As if it will stop them, if they shut down half of the Department of Mysteries –'

'– _reformed_, Marius, _reformed_.'

'Reformed, renamed, reconstructed – what's the point in those nice words, if it's just isn't there!' The older wizard was clearly not in the best mood.

'C'mon, calm down –'

'What? Say I'm not right? Where are the Experimental Charms? The Applied Cosmology? Merlin beard, they've even shut down the Division of Death!'

'Renamed it, Marius.' The younger wizard gave Harry an apologetic look, causing him to turn away and immerse in studying of his own reflection in the lift-car polished wall. Meanwhile, the wizard continued, 'And they did the right job, I think, especially with the Division of Death. Who would like to work in the Division with such a name, anyways?

'Maybe the same idiots who agreed to work in the Committee named S.P.E.W.,' parried his friend with inimitable sarcasm. 'I mean us.'

Harry could hardly suppress his smile.

'Marius! How can you say that?'

'Just joking.' The older wizard sighed. 'Maybe you are right, after all. What's in the name? I only wonder when they will do anything _politically correct_ with the Division of Life.'

'The Division of Life?'

The door opened, letting the two debaters out.

'Or was it Love? Or Luck? Whatever. I mean the room behind the locked door –'

The lift door closed again, and Harry missed the answer. 'Politically correct,' he whispered. How nice. As if anything could be more politically correct nowadays than love. Whatever, if at least half of what the old wizard was saying was true – interesting things must be happening in the Department of Mysteries… It was certainly an opportune decision, to pay a visit there – even setting aside the needs of his investigation.

… On Level Nine, Harry stepped out into the familiar dusty and silent hall. The lift door closed, leaving him in complete darkness. For some reason even the scarcely placed torches were put out today, and for a few moments Harry felt almost disoriented. Then he took out his wand and lit a small light.

The hall was empty. Of course, it was always empty, but today's emptiness created a strong impression that the place was totally abandoned. Harry listened closely: not a sound, only the wind whispering on the edge of hearing. The utter silence made him feel uneasy, and he began to slowly advance forward, lighting the way with his wand.

As he proceeded, Harry noticed even more signs of desolation. The old tapestries that used to hang on the walls had been taken away; the ancient disfigured statues in the niches (rather ugly) also were not there anymore, and only cobwebs, which, judging from their rich design, must have been here for quite a while, decorated the bare grey walls. Harry lowered the wand to the floor: square marble tiles were covered with the pretty thick layer of dust – and, which was the most peculiar, there were no footprints in that dust. None at all, as if this place had not been visited for a very long time. 'Where the hell are all they?' thought Harry. Now he had no doubt that something was very wrong with this place. 'What's happened here?'

At that moment, he reached the end of the hall – and stopped at once, as if having struck a wall. In fact, he almost literally _had_ struck a wall – for where the entrance to the Department of Mysteries used to be, now was nothing but a blank wall. 'What the –?' Harry muttered, completely bewildered.

He made the light brighter. No, there was no mistake. Ahead of him, he saw a blank wall – a perfect, solid, very much uncompromising wall. No sign of a door or any other entrance. No sign that such an entrance at least had been here once: the wall was absolutely uniform. Harry tried several spells, hoping that they would reveal the hidden passage – but to no avail. He touched various stones with the wand, he pressed them with his hand, he even kicked them – all for nothing.

At last he surrendered and stepped back, absolutely confused. An insane idea flashed through his mind: what if he needed to take a run and close his eyes, just as before entering the Platform Nine and Three Quarters?..

No, of course that would not do. Harry took several deep breaths, trying to clear his thoughts.

Well, nothing terrible happened, he said to himself. Probably, just a magic seal. Pretty damn good a seal, he'd say, but a seal nonetheless. He could get past it, of course… In good time. But much better would be to return to the offices and find out who had put this seal here. Most probably he would find that the seal was just a part of some new security system; that would not surprise him at all, especially in light of the recent events.

Anyway, he had nothing to do here, so he turned away and walked back to the lifts. He was lucky that no one else was there, Harry thought; he must have looked as a complete idiot, trying to get past that wall… A joyless smile appeared on his face.

But as he approached the beginning of the hall, this smile vanished at once. He froze for a moment, and then rushed forward, still not believing his own eyes.

Because he saw no lifts ahead of him. At the place they occupied just ten minutes ago, now was another wall – exactly as the one that blocked the other end of the corridor. Slowly, as in a dream, Harry raised his hand and touched it: there were the same rough stones under his fingers.

He let out a short nervous laugh, and was almost frightened of how insane it sounded in that empty dark hallway.

It seemed that he was trapped here.

oxXxo

'I don't like it. I don't like it in the least.'

The voice that awaked Harry from his unhappy thoughts belonged to Hermione. He straightened himself, stretching his numb legs. At last! In the past few hours he had tried every possible way to break out from here, not excluding the most extravagant ones, but failed. Thanks Merlin, he was safe now. Harry stepped out of the niche, ready to hail her – but at that moment he heard the reply of Hermione's companion:

'Neither do I, but it's the only possible solution.'

She was speaking with Theodore Nott. Harry cursed silently: that was the last man he wanted to meet at the moment.

'Are you sure you can do it yourself? Maybe we should invite someone from the professional Cursebreakers…'

'There's no need. I'm not going to lift the wards; we just have to get through the barrier. I set it myself, so I certainly know how to deal with it.'

'But aren't you afraid that someone will enter?' asked Hermione, still in doubt. 'The workday is not over yet.'

'The lifts are temporarily blocked at Level Eight. No one can even get here; the barrier will stop them.'

Whatever business had brought Nott and Hermione here, it was definitely worth investigating, and Harry carefully moved back into the shadows, deciding not to reveal his presence yet.

'And what if they decide to use Polyjuice or something similar?'

'The major benefit of the new system is that it can't be fooled with appearances,' said Nott. 'Here, take a look.'

Harry leaned forward, trying to make out what Nott was going to show, but could see nothing except the thing that looked like a simple rectangular visit card.

'This system is more sophisticated than the one we have at the Vaults,' he continued. 'It can't do anything against the mind-altering curses at the moment, but I'll take care of it.'

In the bluish light from the wand Nott's angular face looked almost grotesque. Well, certainly the man knew his job, thought Harry. He only could not understand the reason for this sudden desire to turn half of the Ministry into an unassailable fortress.

'Those charms are quite complicated,' said Hermione, studying the card. 'I had recognized almost all of them – the majority are very dangerous. And if I'm not mistaken, this derivative of Displacement Hex was even banned by the Ministry.'

'You are not mistaken,' said Nott slowly, his eyes fixed on her face.

'Is all this really necessary?' she asked doubtfully. 'All the secrecy here...'

'Technically? But of course _not_,' came Nott's somewhat unexpected answer. 'We can choose to make our secrets free to everyone… Why shouldn't we? Some of your colleagues stand up for this quite uncompromisingly. Alas, they are so dedicated to their beautiful ideals of freedom and openness that, in fact, they fail to see the fallacy of their reasoning. But I'm sure that _you _do not, Hermione.'

_Hermione_? Harry had never imagined that they were on first-name terms – and, to say the truth, he did not like that revelation at all.

'I could do without your irony… or your compliments, Theodore. If I'm asking, it's only because –' her voice faltered '– because it is not some abstract principles we are dealing with now. So let's see what you wanted to show me, and be off with it.'

Now Nott and Hermione came very close to the niche Harry was hiding, and he held his breath, hoping that he would not give himself away. They must be speaking about something of very great importance; something that was most probably connected with the Department of Mysteries – and, which surprised Harry the most, Hermione was clearly _afraid_ of that something.

At this very moment, as ill luck would have it, Nott had stopped just across his hiding place.

'I do understand how you feel, Hermione,' he said very quietly.

Hermione also stopped and looked at him in silence, probably, as bewildered with the sudden change of Nott's tone as was Harry.

'I do,' Nott repeated again, because Hermione did not answer. 'And now I'm begging for_ your _understanding. I don't want to pressurize you. But what else can I do? I know that I'm right. I have no doubts now.'

'But… but you still don't have the factual proof,' she said; and for Harry, it was painful to hear how weak and desperate her reply sounded.

'The only proof that we could have would be further deaths,' Nott said dispassionately. 'I can't let this happen; doesn't matter if you believe me or not. You were right; it's beyond our beliefs … or our fears.'

'_Our fears_?' Hermione raised her head and met his eyes. 'But it's just… just unthinkable! You may think I'm just not brave enough – but neither our beliefs nor fears could justify… all this. And I do think that you –'

'That I've gone too far?' Nott's eyes suddenly flashed, and his face, lit up with the determination, changed almost beyond recognition. 'And _I_ thought that the last war had taught us all a good lesson. Certainly I must be very naïve… Do you realise that the Potters died because of a simple _information leak_? That the Longbottoms were tortured into insanity not for their beliefs, and not because they were Aurors – but because of the information they supposedly had? And the very Dorcas Meadowes whom we've just talked about – why, how do you think, she was killed? Because of the information I am trying to protect now!' Nott let out a short laugh. 'By the way, do you know how she died? When Aurors found the body, they weren't even sure it was her; after all he had done to make her speak –'

'_Enough_!' she cried. 'Why are you telling me all this?' Hermione was breathing heavily, as if every his word was causing her an unthinkable pain.

Nott stopped at once, still looking at her.

'Not a pleasant talk, I know,' he said, again in his usual calm manner. 'But you have my point. There are people who will stop at nothing in order to get there. We both know it, Hermione.'

She did not say anything, just turned away and resumed her walk. After a brief pause, Nott followed her.

It was not earlier than they reached the masked entrance when she spoke again:

'I agree,' she said, and the way those two words echoed in the darkness made Harry's feeling of utter wrongnesseven stronger. 'I won't tell them. You have my word.'

For several very long moments, Nott did not take his eyes away from her. At last, he said: 'Thank you, Hermione.'

She turned away, and a tensed silence hanged in the air. After some hesitation, Nott spoke again:

'Do you… do you think you can manage it? Maybe, you'll take several weeks off? I will talk to Robards. I need to talk to him in any case.'

'No, thank you, I'm fine. I'll manage.' Her voice was now stronger than before, but no less sad.

Nott's answer came somewhat late, as if he was waiting for Hermione to say something more.

'I believe you know what you are doing, Hermione. I only ask you to be cautious… Not to –'

'There's no need to worry about me,' she stopped him. 'Let's open the door.'

He nodded and took out his strange card-like device.

Harry, who was watching closely their every movement, finally caught his breath. He had heard more than enough. For now, only one thing was absolutely clear for him: both Nott and Hermione somehow were involved in that business with Liquid Time. Harry was not sure what to make of the rest of their conversation yet, but he would have time to think it over later. Now, his first priority was to escape this tunnel unnoticed.

With this thought in mind, he began to advance, little by little, towards the secret passage in the wall – the passage that Nott and Hermione used in order to get here.

He was almost halfway from the saving exit, when something changed in Nott's posture. It was a very subtle change, but Harry somehow felt the danger it implied, and froze, his eyes fixed on Nott. What was he up to?

'What's wrong, Theodore?' asked Hermione, who must have also felt something strange in Nott's behaviour.

He answered after a short pause: 'Nothing. I've only thought that it would be wise to scan the hall before we enter.'

'But why? You think someone followed us here?'

Nott ignored the question. Instead, he muttered something unintelligible and waved his hand, casting the spell.

It all happened so fast that Harry did not understand at first what the spell's purpose was. He quickly turned his head and immediately cursed his own lack of foresight: a bright white contour appeared at the other end of the hallway, like a thin strip of light running through the floor, walls and ceiling – and it was approaching incredibly fast. Harry quickly estimated the distance that parted him from the passage – would he manage or not? – and then made a dash for it, moving as fast as he could, not forgetting about the need to remain silent.

His heart was beating madly; his own movements seemed to him abysmally slow, as those of a fly in syrup; somewhere on the edge of the consciousness he heard Hermione's 'But it's not a destructive spell, isn't it?' and was happy that he missed the answer...

Even then, he would have been in time – if, unfortunately, he had not dropped the snow-globe that fell from his pocket when he had nearly reached the exit. He dodged and caught it just before it hit the ground – his reflexes were still pretty good, though he had not played Quidditch for a while – and saved the globe, but that delay had cost him a precious second he needed.

But it was too late to stop anyway. He closed his eyes and made a desperate jump towards the opening in the wall, clutching the globe in his hand and only praying that he would land safely.

He failed: the bright light had caught him in the midair.

oxXxo

Suddenly, he became aware of the reality. He opened his eyes –

– and breathed freely. At last. He was safe. That vision, that nightmare, whatever it was, had ended. It was all but a dream. What a relief! No darkness, no false friends, no petty intriguers, no pursuits, no fear of destruction. _Thanks god, it all was just a dream_!

He felt that he was smiling, and noted absentmindedly that they may think it's foolish, to smile at nothing. But he didn't care. He walked past some midgets from Hufflepuff, past three girls from Gryffindor (they started giggling as he came alongside), then past Malfoy and his new girlfriend – what was that wretch's name, again? ah, whatever – and he felt as Malfoy tensed when he came closer. Afraid? Maybe. Nevermind.

The sky was a violent mix of peacock green and gold, of pink and peach orange: the colours so pure could exist only here, in Hogwarts. It must have been magically enchanted, the sky above, there's no other explanation of the existence of something as unreally beautiful; as was enchanted the castle itself, and the forest, and the grounds – everything was _perfect_, even the smallest blade of grass.

He stopped at looked up at the outline of the Ravenclaw tower, the highest of them all, with its stones glittering softly in the light of the sunset. Hogwarts. The only place he could truly be safe. The only place he ever called home. The only place that will never vanish, no matter what may happen outside. The last sanctuary.

At that moment he was so happy that he could easily reconcile even with the not-so-pleasant Hogwarts inhabitants. Such as Malfoy. Or those stupid noisy girls. Or that irritating kid from the second year. Or that bore from Ravenclaw, always with her nose in the book, as if it could help her in the end. Or –

Dumbledore! But of course! _That's_ whom he wanted to talk with! At last; he would ask him – he's always wanted to ask –

Dumbledore was standing in the end of the road, at the castle entrance; his weird blue eyes were gleaming curiously from behind the glasses… He was waiting for him – he must be – he should –

'Professor Dumbledore!' he breathed out excitedly. 'I –'

But here it turned all wrong. The strange cold expression appeared on Dumbledore's face, causing him to stop short.

'You?' said Dumbledore disapprovingly. 'How _untimely_! You shouldn't be here. It's certainly _not _the place for you. You cannot stay. Now, off you go!'

With that, he waved his hand; simply wiping him off as he would wipe the school blackboard.

_No!_

For a moment, his entire being withered in a silent scream – and then he ceased to exist.

oxXxo

With a start, Harry came to his senses. He felt pain all over his body, and his legs were shaking so badly that he had to lean against the wall in order not to collapse. Blood hammered in the temples as if his head was going to blow up.

It took some time to become aware of the surroundings. He looked around, noticing low ceiling above him and old stone walls covered with worn-out bas-reliefs. The floor – or rather, ground – was noticeably damp; sound of the dripping water was coming from somewhere in the distance. The corridor to his left was blocked with a huge rock; the corridor to the right disappeared in darkness.

There was no doubt: he was in the underground passages under the Ministry.

It seemed that he had made it in the end, Harry thought. But how was that possible? Nott and Hermione certainly had noticed his last jump – but then why they had not found him while he was unconscious? Because he _was_ unconscious, right?

His glance fell on the snow-globe that he still was holding in his hand, and suddenly, it all became clear. 'It can't be,' he whispered, bringing the glass ball closer to his eyes. 'It was not supposed to work that way...'

He lifted the globe higher, trying to make out the details of the scenery inside. The model of Hogwarts castle was there, precise to the smallest detail… a model so perfect and complete that it was nearly impossible to find at least a sole distinction from the original. He personally could not see any. But not only that: those small moving figures around the castle that he could discern – they were no less real than the castle itself. Perhaps, even more real than he wanted them to be, Harry thought darkly. Maybe they indeed had developed some sort of personality? No, that was simply impossible. But then he remembered Dumbledore and frowned: something here was much more complicated than he had thought before. Why the old man did not let him in? Why he was there at all to begin with?

Words of Burke's ghost came to his mind: 'it was made with a passion to match…' The dead shop-owner somehow had guessed it right. Oh, Harry could have said _quite a lot_ about it now, after being inside... A faint smile appeared on his face, and that smile must have undoubtedly seemed very strange to anyone who would have witnessed him at the moment.

But the passage was empty, and not a sound came from the direction of the blocked tunnel either. Hermione and Nott must have already left. He wondered what they might have thought about that mysterious intruder who had seemingly vanished into the thin air. Of course, the best outcome would be if they decided that there was no intruder at all… Unfortunately, a possibility existed that a Scanning spell had indeed worked. Anyway, Harry could do nothing about it now, and he only hoped that they had not recognized him.

'However it may be,' he said to himself, pocketing the snow-globe, 'I should better get out of here.'

* * *

_That's all for today. __Thank you for reading! I will try to post the next chapter before the New Year, but if I fail, don't beat me. And I wish all of you Happy Holidays!_

_Next chapter: __Harry's suspicions became justified: some people think that his investigation should end…_


	12. The Final Warning

_AN_. Woo-hoo. I'm back. And I promise that I'll never promise that I'll update if I'm not one hundred percent sure of it… But this chapter is very long; almost 8,000 words. I usually divide such large ones in two, but this time will give it in a single piece. It's conversations mostly; so I hope it's not very boring to read.

_To my reviewers_: thank you! You are the best! _StarMirage_: yes, Hermione's behaviour is connected with Harry. Now we'll see even more of it… _ShadowDweller_: not exactly wizards vs muggles, but you're pretty close to one of the important conflicts here…

_This chapter_: Harry has three conversations – one with an ally, one with a friend, and one with an enemy. What will be their outcome?

* * *

**Chapter 12. The ****Final Warning**

It was one of the oldest parts of the building, unknown to many: the remains of an old underground facility, half-temple, half-library, called 'the Keepers Archives' – for a reason now forgotten – the home of some ancient wizard organization that was a predecessor of the Ministry of Magic in its present form.

The place was built according to some wildly inscrutable principles, and an average person was simply bound to get lost here. Those dark long-winded passages that led nowhere, or closed into themselves, or split into dozen of absolutely undistinguishable corridors, all but one of which ended with a deadly trap – they alone were enough to drive an unfortunate trespasser to paranoia or utter despair. And yet they were nothing compared to the rooms and hallways, hidden behind old wooden doors here and there; the rooms that were full of some strange objects and devices, books and clothes, with every kind of trash and treasure – so ancient that their original design and purpose was now beyond understanding. Not to mention that any piece of this junk might have equally disintegrated under the touch of a curious explorer or, vice versa, disintegrate _him_ to dust…

Luckily, Harry knew the way out: during his days in Auror School several years ago, they used this place as training grounds – precisely, for testing the novices' ability to find their bearings in unfamiliar hostile surroundings; an experience not easily forgotten. The good point was that this time he should not be afraid that he would encounter some vile creature or 'scheduled attack' down here.

And maybe, it was for better, because Harry was so disturbed by the conversation he overheard that he did not exactly pay much attention to where he was going.

That Nott had something to do with Liquid Time business did not surprise him at all: he had already suspected that much. That it was him who was behind that new security system in the Department of Mysteries also had been rather predictable, especially after Harry's visit to the Vaults.

But Hermione! It was simply a blow below the belt. Whatever Nott's plans might be, she clearly had been involved in them somehow; and Merlin knows how far it all had gone. Harry still was not quite sure of the precise nature of her relationship with Nott, but what he had seen down there had evoked his darkest assumptions.

_It was not safe to trust her anymore_, he admitted to himself; and the finality of this realisation upset him much beyond he had expected. Before that moment, he had not fully realised how dependent he had become on Hermione's unconditional help and support. Losing her was like suddenly becoming half-blinded.

But what about Hermione herself? Harry was afraid to think what Nott had persuaded her to do in the end. She clearly was almost on the edge of tears… Harry would have even thought that Nott had been blackmailing Hermione, had not he known her better. But did he know her that well, indeed? And he recalled how Nott was calling her by her first name. Not Ms Granger, not even Mrs Weasley, but Hermione… What _that_ was supposed to mean?

So now it seemed that Nott had all the advantage. Not only did he know much more than he, Harry, did; he also was in the position that allowed him to control the access to the most important secrets of Wizarding World – and he certainly would not use that power to help Harry. Why, Harry was almost sure that Nott would do exactly the opposite.

But what was that secret he was so thoroughly protecting? It had to deal somehow with Liquid Time, but what exactly it may be, Harry did not have a slightest idea. Some documents? Blueprints? Maybe; but even if so, they had probably nothing to do with the Factory itself: whatever this secret might be, it had been there at least since Meadowes's times, and she had died long before the Factory was even designed. And then again, they said she had destroyed everything she could, so there must be nothing left from her research. Unless…

_Unless__ there was something she could not destroy_.

Harry stopped, considering this possibility. There was a natural source of Liquid Time within the Ministry; some sort of a well; the only one remaining… That's what Zabini was saying… So maybe that was it?

Damn. To think that he had been so close, when speaking with that idiot. But who might have known that he would get messed up with the even greater idiot, Malfoy?.. Well, at least 'dear Blaise' was not an obstacle anymore, thought Harry with sudden sternness. The guy had nobody to blame for what had happened.

But he was in a hardly better position. Yes, Harry had all reasons to be angry at himself: this entire situation had become possible only because of his over-cautiousness. As if it had not been clear from the very beginning that the role of the Department of Information in that case was much larger than it seemed. But no; he decided to wait. He decided to find out what exactly – or, rather, _whom_ exactly – they were covering. Certainly wanted to play a hero again; poor Ginny was right after all… Stupid, childish, unforgivable behaviour. And now, there was no safe way to avoid confrontation with Nott. Nor there was a way to find out how much he had already known…

…Well, thought Harry after he had calmed down a bit, maybe there was. At least one possibility still remained. He could talk to his boss, Gawain Robards, explain him everything and ask him to use his authority and help Harry in this matter. Of course, Harry understood that he should not rely on it too much; but it was worth trying nevertheless. And besides, the old man wanted to see him in any case… So he had better go and see him now, finally decided Harry. Not that he had much of a choice, anyway.

oxXxo

Gawain Robards, a former Auror himself, although not always supporting Harry's views, never intervened in his decisions, allowing him such a high level of independency that his supervising role as a Head of the Law Enforcement could be rightly called purely formal. Today, Harry expected that Robards would see his visit just as a usual gesture of politeness and procedure, and that, as Ron had said, he hardly would have some news to tell him. So, it would have made a good opportunity for Harry to take the initiative and persuade Robards to do what he needed.

However, very soon he found that he was abysmally wrong in his expectations.

After a couple of obvious questions about Harry's health, Robards proceeded to the main subject – and, truth be said, in a manner rather abrupt:

'I'm afraid, Harry, that we should end the Cold Factory investigation.'

'You mean to put it on hold?' specified Harry. He knew that his boss had a habit of choosing the wordings that were way too strong.

'I mean to cease it completely,' Robards replied gravely.

Harry looked at him with the astonishment that he did not even try to hide:

'But this is impossible!'

Robards produced a strange unintelligible sound, which, as Harry had already known from his past experience, signified something between 'you wish' and 'you better not question what I say'.

'But may I at least know why?' he asked, trying to sound calm.

'No great secret here,' Robards shrugged. 'There's no need in it anymore. To say the truth, there was no need in it from the very beginning. It was just a formal inquiry.'

Harry's eyes narrowed. 'Oh, is that so? No need at all? ' he said very quietly.

Robards suddenly rose from his chair, stretched, as if tired from long sitting, and walked to the window, trying to avoid Harry's reproaching gaze.

'Well, it's probably my fault. I should've told you earlier,' he said at last, still not facing Harry. 'But that can't change anything.'

'You haven't told me what? That this inquest was merely a part of the Ministry's deal with the Brazilians? I knew that already.'

Robards turned to him sharply: 'So you knew? That all this investigation was a pure formality from the very beginning?'

'Yes, I did, but what does it change? Whatever their initial reason for this inquiry could be, it certainly doesn't excuse our holding it in a slipshod manner,' said Harry evenly, not taking his eyes away from Robards.

His boss became clearly uneasy under this gaze. 'What are you talking about, boy?'

'Nothing, sir. Only that the case appeared to be not as clear as everybody had thought. And to stop the investigation now would be extremely _unwise_.' Harry gave Robards another steady and meaningful look.

'What do you mean? You've found something unusual?' Robards looked at him suspiciously and shook his head. 'No, that can't be…' He leaned forward, dropping his voice: 'Are you saying that something _indeed_ was wrong with the factory? That is, not as the first Committee found out?'

'Precisely,' nodded Harry. 'It's too early to jump to the conclusions, but I already have enough evidence to prove that the initial investigation was not held properly… Well, I'd say everyone could've seen this, if they'd only bothered to study the materials. The problem is that no one really cared.'

'Sh-h, calm down, calm down.' Robards moved closer and put his hand on Harry's shoulder in his usual patronizing manner. 'So, there's something in the papers. Could you tell me what is it exactly? You've found a fraud?'

Harry shook his head. 'No, it's not as simple as that. You need to study the case as a whole in order to understand it fully. And then you'd see that the Committee didn't really try to find out what's happened there at all. It seems that they just took the most convenient explanation and then stuck to it. They didn't even bother to look elsewhere. Didn't consider other possibilities.'

'Maybe they simply needn't?' suggested Robards.

'Or maybe they'd been _told_ what exactly they were to find?' parried Harry. 'The more I study the case, the stronger is my belief that it is the most probable explanation. Because how else one could explain their utterly unprofessional – I'd even say helpless – behaviour? I don't know; I'm not a specialist in the magic science – but I was expecting that at least those people would be! But what do we really have? Their expertise was just an empty word. Half of the so-called 'experts', such as Blaise Zabini, didn't even understand what this Liquid Time production business was about. And the only two who seemed to be familiar with the problem didn't come to any agreement at all!'

'Zabini is just a spoilt brat; you can't build the case on what he says. As for the others–'

'Yes, the others,' he caught up. 'Tell me, sir, what's the point to create the Committee from people who simply weren't able to understand what happened there – _unless _this Committee was created for quite the opposite purpose than we used to believe; namely, to make sure that _no one would ever understand what really happened_?'

'Well, well, well, Harry.' Robards laughed. 'I'm sorry, but this is just too much. You're not the specialist, as you've said yourself. So you're definitely not the person who would decide if they're incompetent. And as to their verdict –'

'Now, this is a very interesting part,' interrupted Harry. 'The verdict. It seems that you believe to the power of the qualified expertise, sir. But what if I say that this document wasn't even written by the Committee experts at all?'

'Really? How's come?'

'It was all but dictated by the Department of Information,' Harry was slightly bluffing there, for he had no proof, but there was no need to tell Robards about it. Besides, he was sure that he was right. 'It is_ they _who are the true experts, and not those poor guys from the Department of Mysteries. Indeed, they are. Just look how they dealt with the Factory's surviving worker. Simply brilliant, don't you think. By the way, not only weren't those interrogations authorized – because I doubt that either the Minister or you gave them the permission – but they also went with the severest violation of the procedure.' And, answering Robards' inquiring glance, Harry explained: 'They used Veritaserum. On a civilian, who – strictly speaking – wasn't yet proven guilty. You do understand what it means, sir.'

Robards turned away and frowned. 'Definitely not the fair play, boy.' He tried to smile, but the smile was joyless. 'Damn, I don't like this Veritaserum business at all… I never imagined that –' And he silenced.

Harry threw a glance at him and continued: 'Clearly, people from the Department of Information had to clean up the case. Some documents were taken away, some corrected… you know their practise. Under usual circumstances, I wouldn't have paid a slightest attention to it. Only, under the usual circumstances, the purpose of such – let's say, controversial – actions would have been at least clear to all of us.'

He paused, eyeing Robards, who now was nervously walking up and down the room.

'But with the Cold Factory case, it was not so,' continued Harry. 'Theodore Nott had his eyes on me since the day you asked me to hold the inquest. But why would he be so interested in the investigation if he wasn't somehow involved himself? Certainly, he wasn't trying to shield that fool Zabini. Maybe, the entire story with his Knockturn Alley business was fabricated in order to lead me to the wrong direction. And then, when I didn't buy it, they simply ordered you to cease the investigation. Very nice and admiringly straightforward. Believe me, sir, somebody here in the Ministry manipulated it from the very beginning. I have no proof yet, but I'm sure of it.'

Harry paused to catch his breath and then went on:

'Of course, you might not listen to me and say that it is just my imagination. You might tell me to shut up. To take a vacation and go to Hawaii. You would be certainly in your right… But before you answer, tell me, sir, weren't you surprised with so sudden a fuss about that new security system? Didn't the logic of the latest inter-department reformations – or rather its absence – strike you as something beyond your understanding? And that business with the Authorisation Procedure, all of a sudden again – didn't it seem to you as too much?'

At that moment, Robards suddenly stopped just in front of Harry and glared at him fiercely.

'And what the hell does all this have to do with the Factory? Who's blown it up?' he demanded. 'Tell me at last!'

'Since the investigation is closed, we will never know,' Harry said calmly.

Robards cursed and resumed his pacing. Harry watched him in silence, thinking what he should do next. He had definitely succeeded in alarming Robards with his story, even if he knew that he was not exactly playing fair, but was that enough?

He knew the answer at once when Robards had spoken at last:

'Harry, boy, can you understand what it really means if you are indeed right about your suspicions? This investigation is nothing compared to it. Lord, the Factory itself means nothing! Only, _if_ you are right!'

Great, thought Harry. Clearly, Robards got the message even better than he had hoped.

'Well, boy, I'll be frank. Not that I don't believe you at all – but I think you're certainly over-exaggerating. Well, I _hope_ you are. But' – Robards winced – 'I can't deny that I don't like the recent situation here. You asked me some questions, Harry, about all those changes – and in that, quite unpleasant ones. And I must confess: I don't like these reformations and new procedures at all. They're very clever, all those projects, so progressive and sophisticated… I've never objected any of them... but somehow I had the feeling that they're just not right. And you know what? I can't even explain why I don't like them. They simply don't look like the real thing, you know. Not the good, solid magic, but some imitation.'

Robards silenced, probably, engrossed in his thoughts. Then he spoke again: 'Or maybe I'm just too old for it? But then I'm not the one of those whiners who miss the good old times, Harry. Because they weren't good at all. You know, I began my career when Barty Crouch was the Head of the Department. And I must say it had its… peculiarities… to be an Auror at that time. Definitely I'm not proud of the way we used to deal with the problems back then. Veritaserum would be just the child's play. Merlin beard, we would have _Crucio_'ed that factory worker on spot had we a slightest suspicion that he's guilty, and nobody would've said a single word to us…' Robards gave a start, becoming aware that he'd been swept away with his memories. 'It doesn't mean that I approve the ways of Nott and his people, of course. But do I blame them as hard as, probably, you do? Honestly, Harry, I do not.'

'I see,' said Harry politely. Robards rarely talked about his first days as an Auror, and Harry knew that he did not like to be reminded of that time. That today he decided to break this habit was just further evidence that he was feeling not very comfortable.

'You simply are much better than me, boy; you and your friends,' said Robards. 'You're much better than any of us the old guard. You see it all differently. So maybe there is a future, after all, where I see just a polished nonsense…'

He sighed, recollected himself, and continued in an absolute different manner, much more authoritative.

'But I digress. Harry, you are absolutely wrong in your assumption that it is Nott who is forcing me to end the investigation.'

Harry stared at him expectedly, awaiting the explanation.

'Weasley from the International Affairs was here yesterday.' Robards made a sour face as he mentioned that name. 'It appeared he's in charge of that deal with the Brazilians regarding the patent – I mean the scheme of Liquid Time production – '

'I know,' Harry put in.

'The problem is that the guys learned somehow of the investigation, and, as you can imagine, it is no good at all, because now they're suspecting that something is wrong with the project itself. The Minister, of course, tried to reassure them; he said that the investigation is just the part of a standard procedure… I don't know what happened, maybe that Weasley is just a pompous fool and failed to explain them our situation – but they just refuse to listen to us now. They want to close all negotiations within a week, or they will have no deal at all. At least that's what Weasley has told me.

'I immediately went to see the Minister,' continued Robards. 'My people are Aurors, after all, and not the pet dogs. They had better things to do than to start and finish their investigations just because of some snobbish youth's whimsies.'

Harry smiled: those were almost exactly the words he'd like to say himself. 'Thank you for your support, sir.'

'It's nothing, friend; and I mean this "nothing", because it didn't help,' muttered Robards. 'Kingsley had listened to me and then told that I had to do as Weasley had said. You see, this deal with Brazilians is not just about the money. It's much more to it than that. To establish long-term relationships with them is very important for the entire Wizarding community, that's what Kingsley said. In some sense, it's a matter of trust. I think you understand.'

Harry did. He was never interested in politics, but now the situation was obvious. British Wizarding community still had to win back the international recognition, because its image fell disastrously low as a result of Voldemort conflicts. Many wizarding societies had severed all diplomatic ties with them ten years ago, and yet others did so way back in seventies: they were afraid to put their own social stability at risk, dealing with the Ministry that was nothing but a puppet government.

'So you see how unenviable my position is. On the one hand, as a Head of Law Enforcement, I can't order to stop the investigation when we still don't know what's caused the Factory destruction – especially if you're saying that it is not that clear. But on the other hand, the reputation of our entire society is at stake. We can't afford to lose the Brazilians, so we should make anything in order to sign the deal…' Robards shook his head. 'I'm afraid that we have no other choice. You should do as I've said.'

'All right, sir,' said Harry and nodded. 'I understand.'

'And anyway, the major problem has nothing to do with the patent, if I got it right. It's not something with the Factory itself that was wrong, but with the way people acted, isn't it?' asked Robards, looking at Harry questioningly.

Harry hesitated before answering. Was he absolutely sure that there were no flaws in the project itself?

'I can't guarantee that,' he said at last. Somehow he felt as if it was his own fault, and it made him feel really guilty.

'Fine then,' said Robards with a sigh, but his eyes clearly betrayed his disappointment. 'Still, I think, it's better to do as I've said. Put all evidence in the Vault, write a report… I believe I do not need to teach you what has to be written there… and… and that'll be it.'

'Don't worry, I'll do it.'

'By tomorrow.'

It was a request rather than order, and Harry just nodded silently.

Robards stretched out his hand to him. 'Sorry, boy,' he said. 'I know it's not the proper way to do it, but you see how it has turned out.'

Harry took his boss' hand and shook it. He did not feel the need to say anything else. He just had to wait.

'Of course you understand,' said Robards. 'I knew that you would. Damn all those – ah, nevermind.

Harry was still looking at him, knowing that his boss would not just let it go like this.

'No, I can't leave it as it is,' Robards said suddenly. 'We _have to know_, in the end, what's happened there, no matter what these guys are trying to sell us.'

Harry held his breath, watching Robards intensely.

'So you'll continue, Harry. Unofficially, of course,' he said. 'Maybe you should hold on for a week or two, switch tasks, or maybe take a short vacation… And then you'll go on. Very discreetly. Maybe we'll open another case; technically it'll be easier… If somebody starts to ask questions about it, just deny everything. The case is closed, and you know nothing. Not a word to anyone, even to your closest friends… I'll do the same. And don't mess with the Department of Information – this Nott fellow is by no means an easy target.'

Harry hesitated. 'And what if I had to confront Nott directly? Will I have your support?'

'I'm afraid there is not much I could do for you. Circumstantial evidence won't be enough here. You must find something that will really compromise him. It should be a bomb, Harry. To tell the truth, I don't believe that you'll find it. He's anything but a fool, Harry. He must've secured himself long ago from such attempts… But hey, it seems you're already sure that he's dirty hands here, eh?'

'Maybe he's covering somebody else,' said Harry vaguely. 'We'll see. Anyway, thank you, sir…for believing me.'

'Think carefully. It might cost both of us our career. And maybe even more –'

But he didn't have the chance to finish the phrase: an unexpectedly loud voice of Robards' secretary came from the talking device on his desk.

'Sir, my apologies for interrupting you, but you have an appointment with Mr Nott,' the voice said.

Harry and his boss exchanged their looks, but either of them said nothing.

'Yes, thank you, Melissa. Is he already here?'

'No, sir, but he's calling now. Should I tell him that you are still busy with Mr Potter?'

'No,' answered Robards quickly, 'we have already finished. Tell him I'll be waiting for him at the entrance to the Minister offices, as we agreed,' and with that, he turned back to Harry.

'So, boy –'

'I'm already leaving,' said Harry, rising. 'Good bye, sir.'

'Wait a moment,' said Robards, putting his hand on Harry's shoulder. 'Are you… are you _really_ sure you have to go against Nott? This inter-department politics could be a dirty business, Harry. People there won't like when somebody pokes his nose in their affairs. It's better to avoid the open conflict.'

'Well, maybe. But haven't you ever wondered how Voldemort managed to bring the entire Ministry under his control so easily, sir?' said Harry instead of an answer.

Robards laughed. 'Point taken, boy. Good luck to you, then. And don't forget, you still have to write the report. Though I know you don't like it –'

Harry smiled. 'Don't worry, boss. Weasley from the International Affairs will simply die from envy.'

oxXxo

With that, they parted, and Harry headed straight for the Aurors Offices.

The work-day ended two hours ago, so the corridors were almost empty. The lights were muted, rooms shut, and only house elves could be seen here and there, setting about the usual clean-up that they did every night. Harry carefully tried to avoid the poor creatures when he could; he knew that meeting with people made them terribly upset: they were taught to do their job silently and not be noticed, and, just as the other house elves in the Wizarding World, the Ministry ones were panically afraid to disobey their orders.

Harry had already decided what he would do in order to continue this half-official investigation. Their annual inspection of dangerous magic facilities was to begin very soon, and it was very handy for him. Of course, Senior Aurors very rarely participated in it: the task was more suitable for fresh Auror School graduates; it was a good training mission before they were allowed to investigate a 'proper' case. However, this time Harry decided to change that practise. He had expected that his decision would cause quite a big surprise among his colleagues, but was prepared: the meeting with Robards (of which they already knew) could be used to his benefit. Minister, he would say, was interested in more serious approach to this inspection in the light of the so much anticipated negotiation with the Brazilians... Yes, they should perceive it seriously.

With that thought in mind, Harry drew out his wand, ready to lift the wards from the entrance to the Auror Offices, but then stopped and examined the door more closely. Yes, his feelings had not betrayed him: the defensive charms were undoubtedly altered. They were not broken completely – and if they were, the signalling system would certainly have given away the intruders – but something had been done here, maybe a temporarily block or Disillusionment Charm…

Harry checked again: no light was seen from under the door. Whoever might be inside, they were very discreet. He held his breath and aimed the wand. Now; one, two –

On 'three' he cast a non-verbal seal-breaking spell and blasted the door open, at the same time illuminating the room with the dazzling-bright _Lumos Magnifica_.

With a short shriek, the unexpected visitor, who seemed to search through the papers at one of the tables, covered the eyes. But Harry already recognised the one before him, and pulled the wand down, utterly confused.

'Hermione! What are you doing here?'

'Ah, hi, Harry,' she said nervously, rubbing her running eyes. 'I– I just came to see if Ron is still here.'

Harry slowly crossed the room and stopped near the table across from her. Poor Hermione was never good in lying. She could have fooled only somebody as dumb as Umbridge.

'And the door?' he asked.

'What?'

'How did you open it?'

She shrugged. 'With my ID, of course.' She tried to sound at ease, but her voice was too tensed. 'I have the access to every office in our Department now; I thought you knew.'

It might be true or might not, the chances were equal. But now it was not important at all: even if she had not the access, she would found the way to get wherever she wanted. Harry threw a brief glance at the papers that she had been supposedly searching: they seemed to be some old cases from their inner archives… Nothing of interest. He walked around the table, moving closer to Hermione.

'Anyway, I'm glad that you came,' he said almost honestly. 'I haven't seen you for so long, since that day in _St Mungo_'s… So, how's life, Hermione?'

'Oh, everything's fine. Sorry that I didn't come - that I wasn't visiting you often.' She bit her lip. She certainly wasn't very comfortable in Harry's company. 'And you? Are you… fully recovered? You look pale,' she added hastily.

'No, I'm fine, thanks,' Harry smiled, but it was as sincere a smile as her made-up worry just a moment ago. 'Just a bit tired... Maybe, you were right, and I should take a vacation.'

Strange – but was it a sigh of relief in her eyes? The feeling he expected the least under current circumstances.

'So you decided to have some rest at last?' she asked hopefully.

'I'd love to, but it's not a proper time for that. The Cold Factory's case is closed, but there are a lot of other things to do.' He waved his hand indefinitely. 'The end of the year business, you know. And then this annual inspection...'

She seemed slightly surprised. 'But I thought that Ron was in charge of it?'

'He still is. But now it appeared I had to go also. I've talked to the boss today.'

'Oh,' she answered bleakly.

'And how are you? Busy as always?' He tried to catch her glance, but to no success.

She moved her shoulder. 'Ah, just the usual stuff. The International Congress of Wizards is starting the next week in France, and I'm in the delegation. We are to leave today at midnight, but yesterday it appeared that not all the documents were duly prepared, so I had to stay overnight.'

'Again? You work too much, Hermione. You know, maybe it's _you_ who should take a vacation first of all. You don't want to end up in _St Mungo_'s like myself, do you? Maybe I should talk to Ron about that...'

'No!'

There was a clear fear in her reply, and Harry silenced: he did not understand why she was reacting so wildly to so simple a suggestion.

'Hermione.' He gently took her hand. 'Maybe you will tell me at last what is going on with you?' he asked quietly.

Hermione sighed and turned away, and Harry waited patiently, not taking his eyes away from her.

'I can't,' she said at last.

'You _can't_ or you just _don't want_? Oh, please, be frank with me. I don't need those polite excuses anymore. I will understand, Hermione. Whatever is happening between you and Nott - '

It must have been a wrong thing to say. She pulled out her hand and straightened up, her cheeks flushing with anger.

'Harry! But it's absolutely not what you're thinking! It's just… I'm just very tired. I haven't slept today. I have a terrible headache. And now you, with all these suspicions – that's just ridiculous! I'm not your enemy, you know…' She winced, surely not believing in her own acting. 'Well, listen. I will talk to you. I'll tell you everything. Only later. I promise. Now I just can't – And I really think I have to go.'

She made a movement to leave, but Harry, almost unwillingly, stepped ahead and blocked her way.

'Hermione, please, don't go,' he said softly. 'I see that something is not all right with you. Are you… Are you sure you don't want to tell me?'

'Everything is all right, Harry. I've said already,' she answered patiently. 'I'm fine. Just tired.'

She purposely avoided his gaze. In fact, for all the time she had been here, she had not looked in his eyes even once.

'Look at me, Hermione,' he asked quietly, almost in a whisper. 'Please.'

Instead, she closed her eyes and shook her head silently.

But Harry was persistent. 'Tell me what's happened, Hermione. Even if you think that you can't. May be it's not as bad as it seems. May be we can work out something… Together.'

She closed her eyes even tighter, giving out some weird sound, half-sob, half-moan. Harry saw it all so clearly now: she was like an overstretched string, pulled to the limit, ready to break… He almost hated himself now for how straightforward he had to be. Unfortunately, there was no other way.

'Hermione, please…'

At that moment, she looked straight at him at last, and his heart fell: Hermione's eyes were devoid of any impression. There was no mistake as to what it meant: Harry could recognize the look of those using Occlumency without any hesitation. So, if _that_ was how she wanted it…

A sudden surge of anger flooded him, making his desire to get out from the sticky web of lies, and half-truths, and obliged politeness nearly impossible to resist. All his doubts, his diffidence, his fears fell back, leaving him with the very simple option, the only true and reasonable one. She broke into his office; she was lying to him; and she was alone. It was all her fault. No one would prevent him from getting what he wanted. No one would even know…

A kaleidoscope of images flashed through his mind, burning him, tearing him apart, torturing him – and at last leaving him in peace, defeated, solitary; his heart full of sorrow, but his thoughts lucidly clear.

'All right, as you wish.' He stepped aside, letting her go. 'Goodbye, Hermione.'

It must have been not what she had expected. She did not go – she did not even move, just stood there, looking down at her feet, not sure how to act.

'Harry, I –'

He raised his hand in protest: 'Don't say anything, Hermione. If you believe me capable of _this_ –'

'No, Harry, it's not true –'

For the first time, her voice was free from that awkward restraint and made-up amiability. It seemed he got to her at last; for she was certainly earnest in her guilt and her desperation.

But before she was able to say anything else, the door opened, and the tension was broken with the words so casual that, in the contrast with the scene that preceded them, they seemed absolutely out of place.

'Oh, how _fortunate_! Ms Granger, I was looking for you. Oh, and good evening, Mr Potter. I'm so glad to see that you are well.'

But of course. Our dear omni-present Theo Nott, thought Harry. Damn it. He quickly looked at Hermione: luckily, she had already come to her senses, so there was a chance that Nott would not understand anything.

'The Minister wants to see you,' Nott continued, watching Hermione very closely.

'Oh,' she said, but did not move.

'The matter is urgent,' said Nott. 'The delegation is leaving an hour earlier than it was planned. I'd suggest that you go there as soon as possible.'

Without a word, Hermione obeyed. Harry watched as she slowly stepped away from him, turned away and left the room, her movements almost confident, though marked by some weird rigidness. Maybe that conversation was too much for her, thought Harry, slightly alarmed. Certainly Nott would suspect something if he talked to her now – that was, if he had not been already suspecting something.

But, contrary to Harry's expectations, Nott did not follow Hermione. Instead, he carefully closed the door and turned to him.

'Mr Potter,' he said. 'I'd like to have a few words with you while you're still here, if you don't mind.'

Harry stared back at him, knowing already that he would hardly be pleased with whatever Nott had to say. But he did not betray his feelings and just pointed silently to one of the chairs for visitors.

Nott sat down, looking absolutely unruffled. Harry himself took a seat at the other side of the table, facing him directly.

For several moments, they looked at each other expectantly, without saying a word.

'I think your friend Ms Granger is feeling not so well recently,' said Nott at last.

'She is tired,' answered Harry quickly. And then admitted: 'Yes, I worry about that too. But she's always been like that. Working too much all the time.'

'Yes, I know it. There was even some incident involving the Time Turner in her fourth year because of it, if I remember correctly… Or was it her third?' Then, noticing Harry inquiring look, he explained: 'It's all in her papers. Of course we had to study them when she was applying for her current position. It's a standard practise.'

Those were not the words that could help Harry to feel at ease. He could not but wonder what could have been written in his own files. Ah, what a story it may be… Though, for now, it was better to forget about his curiosity.

'Let's get back to your question, Mr Nott,' he said politely. 'What was that you were going to ask me?'

'Oh, merely about your opinion on how the Cold Factory case has turned out at last.' Nott smiled and explained: 'I thought that you might be disappointed.'

'Disappointed? Why?'

Nott looked genuinely perplexed:

'Why, you have paid a considerable attention to the case that everybody else believed to be clear as a noonday – which, of course, raises a plenitude of questions.'

'Your words astonish me, Mr Nott,' said Harry. 'Because it's obvious that our interest in this case is at least mutual. Or are you going to deny it?'

'Certainly not. However, I seriously doubt that our interests had the same cause.'

'Well, at least there is no doubt that our methods are absolutely different, Mr Nott,' said Harry, returning Nott's cold smile.

'And so it shall be, Mr Potter. Our professional competences are also different, after all.' He remained utterly imperturbable, and that coolness, along with his overdone civility, irritated Harry increasingly more.

'And does that professional competence of yours also imply the information hiding?' he inquired.

'But of course it does,' said Nott matter-of-factly. 'Though your question sounds as if you're accusing me, Mr Potter. I presume you mean something particular by that?'

Harry did not feel the necessity to hide the truth:

'You've asked me for my opinion of the Cold Factory case, Mr Nott? So here it is: I think that certain papers from it did not disappear just by an accident.'

'Ah, you mean that worker's statement – what was his name – Slopey?'

'And also several pages from the project evaluation.'

'Why, Mr Potter!' Nott bestowed him with a rather shrewd look. 'It seems you scrutinised the case indeed closely. Pity that your time has been wasted on such a trifle. Because the named papers were taken merely for their reference to certain dark curses, according to the last revision of the Main Internal Security Directive, paragraph two. You also signed it, by the way.'

Harry had to sign too much nonsense these days, just as any other senior Ministry official had. Of course, there must be some useful documents among this bureaucratic junk, but he never paid much attention to them, trusting the judgement of Kingsley or Hermione, who obviously knew better, and – damn, they even seemed to enjoy all that stuff. Quite unlike him: he was not the man for that kind of paperwork.

'And was the entrance to the Department of Mysteries also sealed according to some intricate directive?'

Nott looked at him curiously. 'It's interesting that you ask. Does one of your investigations lead there as well?'

It seemed that Nott did not know that it was Harry down there in the blocked hallway; well, it was at least something.

'Even if it does, I had no luck of getting inside,' he said. 'By the way, does the seal there imply that we are forbidden to enter the Department of Mysteries from now on?'

'Oh, but of course not, Mr Potter. No one here is – or will be – putting obstacles in the way of our Aurors in their investigations. The seal is temporary; it will remain for no more than three days. After that, the authorization system will be fully functional, and the access will be granted to those who have a _valid purpose _to be there. Those who prefer idle chit-chats, however, will find themselves less than pleased with the new rules… We always needed to protect our secrets better. Sometimes information is everything. But you know this perfectly well from your personal experience,' – Nott blinked – 'don't you, Mr Potter?'

Was that the implied menace in his remark? Why else would have he stated the obvious?

'Well, the people there aren't called Unspeakables for nothing,' Harry said at last. 'And as for the need to protect our secrets – you know, Mr Nott, _necessary_ does not always mean _by any means necessary_.'

Nott widened his thin lips in a smile which looked more frightening than reassuring.

'Everyone who has a valid purpose will be granted an access,' he repeated. 'I think it's only fair.'

Oh yes, fair; especially if Nott and his men would decide whether or not the purpose was 'valid'.

'And, in all truth, Mr Potter, I don't understand why you have put so much effort into this investigation. The entire case was absolutely straightforward – as you, undoubtedly, have managed to find out already,' said Nott. 'There might be some … more vague details… but they didn't matter that much… and certainly, they were not worthy of the time of such a high-class professional as you, Mr Potter.'

'Who but you know that there are no insignificant details in the case like that,' Harry returned the compliment, his voice simply oozing the sweet politeness. 'Oh, and _by the way_, if the case is so straightforward – who's blown up that damn factory, Mr Nott, how do _you_ think?'

'But certainly you _do_ know it, Mr Potter, don't you?' Nott answered in a manner no less amiable. His glance, however, remained cold and heavy.

For what seemed a very long time, they eyed each other in silence. Damn it. That sly-boots Nott; certainly he knew it all, and now was just playing with him. But what he was trying to achieve by that?

'Ah, and about the Department of Mysteries…' Nott looked as if he suddenly thought of something. 'You certainly remember your ill-fortunate poisoner, Blaise Zabini. You said that you talked to him. Am I right?'

'Yes, I did. Why?

'Strange thing – no one can find him,' said Nott with a short frivolous laugh, which made quite a curious contrast with deadly serious impression of his watery eyes. 'We can't finalize the inquest on your poisoning without him being present.'

'Hmm. I see he's not so eager to undergo your interrogation?' Harry suggested, not without a certain amount of vindictiveness. 'Though I'm not surprised. Not everyone is a fan of Veritaserum, Mr Nott.'

Nott shrugged. 'No one mentioned interrogation at all, let alone under Veritaserum. It should have been just a small conversation… A quite friendly one.'

'Then I don't see the reason why Zabini would be so nervous,' said Harry, secretly gloating.

'Me too.'

What was that impression? Nott was obviously hinting that Harry must know some other cause which would have explained Blaise's unwillingness to show his face in the Ministry… And Nott's next words had perfectly confirmed his guess:

'Anyway, his disappearance is quite mystifying... Perhaps, it is somehow connected with the Cold Factory case? Is it possible, how do you think?'

'I shall check it, if you think something may come of it.' Harry smiled, his gaze impenetrable. 'I doubt it, though.'

'Oh, do you? And may I inquire what exactly you and Zabini were talking about during your previous meetings?'

'No, I'm afraid not,' he said firmly. 'We never discuss the details of our investigations with outsiders.'

Nott straightened himself in his chair, suppressing the sigh of disappointment.

'You don't seem to be very supportive, Mr Potter.'

'I regret that,' Harry answered coolly.

It seemed that Nott lost his patience at last. 'I think I shall make some things clear, Mr Potter. Because I fear that there might be some deplorable misunderstanding between us.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean that it is not wise for you to put so much unnecessary devotion to some particular matters. Especially if you disregard the objectivity in favour of your personal agenda. It just seems… inappropriate. Unpleasant questions might arise.'

For Harry, it had also become the last straw.

'You know, Mr Nott, recently I've got rather tired of suggestions as to what is appropriate for me, and what is not,' he said. 'Hell, sometimes I think that I'd better have died in that battle ten years ago; that certainly would have pleased every one of those well-wishers… So I'll also make myself clear: I don't care a thing about what _somebody_ believes I should do.'

Nott leaned forward. 'Mr Potter, listen to me. I'm truly open with you now. Maybe not the most cautious thing to do, taking into account your obvious dislike for me... let alone everything else. I've been watching you for quite a while, much longer than you probably ever imagined.' A weird derisive impression appeared on Nott's face and vanished at once. 'And I must confess: I'm almost in awe of you. Yes, I really am. I consider some of your beliefs simply admirable. Your persistence and your perseverance are worthy of any respect. Your ability to inspire everyone who works with you is beyond everything I've seen. But I still have to say what I'm saying now: you must stop, Mr Potter. Now you've gone too far. You know it yourself.'

Harry stared at him. If earlier he might suspect some implying menace in Nott's words, now it was a clear unambiguous threat. But did it mean that Nott already knew about his intention to continue the investigation?

'I'm afraid I don't understand you,' Harry said at last. 'Are you questioning my methods? Or my personality per se? In any case, I'm afraid I will not change either of them to please you, Mr Nott.'

Nott waited for several moments, and then that strange gleam in his eyes faded, leaving nothing but stiffness in his face.

'I understand your point. Pity that you chose not to understand mine. Of course, we would hardly become allies, but at least, we could have co-existed... peacefully. Or so I hoped. And I'd like you to know, Mr Potter – in the end, I didn't want it to come to this,' he said in a very quiet, but distinct voice. 'But now you don't leave me any other alternative. I think you are making a mistake.'

This warning sounded rather ominous; and Nott's calmness and absolute absence of any emphasis only strengthened the impression.

'Maybe you are right, Mr Nott. We shall see,' Harry answered, trying to hide his rage behind the strained insincere smile.

There was no point in surrendering to emotions. This confrontation had already put him beyond both rules and caution, but Harry was not going to give up. He hoped that he would have more time, but in essence, nothing had changed because of that conversation. He just would have to sacrifice some conventionalities – but it would be by no means the first time when he ought to do so. And after he found what he was looking for, Nott would not be an obstacle anymore.

'Then farewell, Mr Potter. I believe this was our last conversation,' said Nott, rising from his seat.

'If you say so,' said Harry, shrugging. The last conversation, true... the next one would be pretty much a monologue. 'Good bye, Mr Nott.'

* * *

_AN. __Thank you again! And a review would be nice..._

_Next chapter: Harry pays a visit to Ollivander._


	13. Woes of the Wandmaker

_AN: _Hello to all my readers! Here is the Chapter 13. It was very hard to write – and, it seems, even harder to read :( – so I'm sorry for that. But the next one will be different; it'll even have some action!

_This chapter_: Mr Ollivander has always been quite unorthodox in his views of life… Will Harry find something useful in the wandmaker's vague answers?

Warning: too much metaphysics. Really.

* * *

**Chapter 1****3. Woes of the Wandmaker**

The autumn this year was not of the pleasant ones. Almost every visitor who entered Mr Ollivander's shop felt himself obliged to make some sort of remark on the matter. Too cold, they said; too rainy. It came so early; it spoiled the good half of the summer; it was unbearable.

Several minutes later, when the calmness of the shop soothed their petulance, those visitors recalled why they had come here, and after that they would behave in a quite different manner – just like any sensible man should before making a very delicate and a very important decision that could possibly influence his entire life.

Mr Ollivander did not like being addressed as a 'wand-seller'. This title put him on the same level with mere merchants, money-makers who worried about nothing but their profit. It had nothing to do with the craft that Mr Ollivander rightly considered his vocation.

He, and his father, and his grandfather, and his grand-grandfather, and many generations of his ancestors before them had devoted their life to the fine art of wandmaking. The Ollivanders were rightly considered the best wandmakers in the Old World. Their glory was unreachable, their craftsmanship – incontestable. Their art had been polished over the ages, becoming more refined with each generation. They paid no attention to the pessimistic talks of old pure-blooded families, who prophesied the death of true magic and the upcoming reign of Muggles. They remained indifferent to the common prejudices against muggleborns or lesser magic beings. They knew too well that such beliefs originated from the plain ignorance. The essence of this world was immutable, but the revelations of this essence were changing with time, and it was these changes that make the world truly alive. So there must be no fear in the soul, they would always say, but acceptance.

This autumn, for example, was coming to its end. The days became dark and withered; the golden-red colours of October woods were swept away with the cold lingering rains; and then the rains stopped, and the wind became dry and chilly, freeing the trees of their dead shrivelled foliage. The flow of his customers ceased: all young wizards and witches who were beginning their education this year had already bought their wands; and aside from them, a rare person would have decided to acquire a new wand at this time, when the year was on the wane: for adult wizards, it was a usual practice to change their wands at spring or at the beginning of summer.

Late autumn and winter were the dead season for his business – and Mr Ollivander liked them the most of all, because then, at last, he was free to dedicate his entire time to his favourite occupation – to the making of wands.

It was generally accepted that the very best wands could be carved only from fresh wood, given by a recently cut tree. Mr Ollivander by no means shared this belief. When he received the new shipment of wood – each year on the Autumn Equinox – he never began crafting the wands at once. At first, he locked those trees in the dark and quiet rooms, where not a single ray of sun could reach them, and not a slightest breath of wind was able to break their solitude. There, in silence and darkness, trees forgot about the forest they had been part of, and, after almost losing their memories, found their true spirits. By that, the soul of each tree was revealed in its undisputable genuineness; it was as thought those trees were suddenly blessed with a gift of speech and let out the Word that had been put into them since the time of Creation, freed for the new life. This transformation made them ready for the creation of the wands; and Mr Ollivander proceeded to it as the winter Sun would enter the third degree of Capricorn, thus marking the beginning of the new cycle.

Time has no beginning and no end; it flows steadily; and no one could name the moment when the day becomes night, the winter begins to die, and the new year replaces the old one. The name 'New Year' was somewhat vague, ephemeral, and Mr Ollivander thought that it was created with the sole purpose to build at least an illusion of certainty in the long sequence of vanishing days. People were always striving to find the beginning and the end in everything: it allowed them to set order to their lives, driving them into the frame of clear and distinct set of rules, usually called 'common sense'.

The truth is always simple; but the simplicity is not always true. It is just more convenient; no more than that.

Anyway, the first tree of the druidic cycle, and thus, the first tree from which Mr Ollivander would begin his work, was Birch.

He imagined the Birch and smiled. It was a light, easy tree; he loved it. Though maybe 'love' was not the right word to describe his feelings: if you do not love a tree, you will never make a good wand from it. You may be the most brilliant wood-carver, but if you do not accept the soul of the tree, you will produce nothing but a dull Muggle toy. Mr Ollivander had never made his wands from the trees he did not like, or, to be precise, from the trees he did not understand.

He thought that he was akin to Birch, and he liked that wood – a bright feeling of freedom embraced him every time he pictured its spirit in his heart; and the world would become once again fresh and new, full with happiness and light. Probably, those who had chosen Birch – or whom it had chosen – saw the world exactly like that. The choice of a wand is a mutual decision, as Mr Ollivander always reminded to his customers; the wand and its master are the two strings playing their tune in harmony.

To play with your instrument out of tune is a shame for the musician and a cheap entertainment for the profaners; and the same could be said about the wizard who performed magic with an inappropriate wand. The false notes in a music piece are easily spotted; the false notes in magic are much harder to sense. With a sad regret Mr Ollivander noted that there were only a few people left who could feel if the magic was out of tune, and year by year, their numbers were deteriorating. Well, the world was becoming too pragmatic and rational, and many magic arts faded, having turned into a mere source for trade.

'It's all because of those Muggle-breeds,' the last remnants of ancient wizard families growled under their nose. They did not try to suppress their discontent, appealing to his sympathy. Mr Ollivander remained silent, and his silence was taken for his support. He had never dissuaded them: it simply was not worth it.

Mr Ollivander knew that Muggles had nothing to do with it, and that the Muggles, maybe, were in even greater need for compassion, because they had lost much more than the wizards – and had not even noticed it. They built their society on efficiency and logic; that was the choice they had made – and after making that choice, they were to face its inevitable consequences, both good and bad ones. Nothing could be done here: every choice is a loss, because from the many possibilities you are choosing the only one, letting the others disappear forever. Every reality has its price: the multitude of others that did not come to life.

Their reality was a chilly air of the approaching winter. Mr Ollivander looked at the hour-glass at the window-sill: the sand had already poured down, which meant that the day was half-over. Only two wizards visited his shop today: one left without buying anything (sometimes that happened), and the other spent almost an hour, choosing the new wand instead of the broken one – he was inclined to find the wand 'exactly as the old one'. A hopeless task, Mr Ollivander admitted to himself. Let what is dead be dead. Nevertheless, he patiently helped the upset mage in his pursuit for the impossible: the illusion of persistency was one of the sweetest deceptions; the old wandmaker knew it as no one other.

Too many people were enchanted by the past, and gave themselves up to despair, exhausted with the hopeless attempts to return what had gone forever. Mr Ollivander did not approve that kind of nostalgia: a man whose desires lie in the past is as good as dead. Nothing could help a dead man, even the dead things he surrounded himself with.

Yet still… Were not the greatest masterpieces of art created in a desperate attempt to stop the time in its flight, to make a single moment last for eternity, to conquer death?

And, at last, did not his own efforts of preserving the tree souls serve the same purpose? Ah, if only Jamey, his nephew, would understand it! The true wandmaking was not about the profit, and not about the fame, and even not about the tradition; it was all about the soul. In the end, everything is about the soul in this world. It ever was.

… The faint sound of a doorbell had interrupted his dream, and Mr Ollivander came to his senses – to find himself almost in a complete darkness. He probably had fallen into a light sleep, and had not noticed as the evening came. He threw a glance at his hourglass at the window-sill: the sand surface in the lower bulb was perfectly still, as if the time had also come to its end. Then, a slight movement in the darkness made him turn his head and look at the door.

A dark silhouette was seen at the doorframe, its contours black against the last remains of the day-light.

And then a haunting resemblance struck him. It was as if the time somehow had brought him back, to that night more than ten years ago, as solitary and sad as today's. The time, the place, the feeling – everything matched… A freezing cold locked Mr Ollivander's heart, and its beating became shallow and uneven. It could not be _him_; no, it could not…

He found the lamp on the shelf beside him; he turned in on, his movements bound rather by fear than by darkness. A figure moved, and the heavy wave of panic rushed away: it was just another customer, nothing unusual about him… A sigh of relief escaped Mr Ollivander's breast. It was not the first time when he let the shadows of his past unsettle him. Years passed, but they did not become weaker; the pain, the horror, the despair of those days, and above them all – the burning feeling of guilt, completely pointless now...

Some memories were too heavy to bear, but a man should never succumb to the weight of his past. Mr Ollivander forced himself to recollect: he had a visitor in his shop.

'Good evening, Mr Ollivander,' said his guest. 'I'm not too late, I hope?'

The wandmaker winced short-sightedly and rose from his seat behind the counter. His visitor was a rather young man in Muggle clothes – but they all dressed like that nowadays – and he had that peculiar worried and tensed look about him that always allowed Mr Ollivander to recognize the matter most serious.

'Usually we are closed at this time,' he said. 'But of course you wouldn't come here so late if it weren't for some urgent purpose, sir. Let's see what I can do for you. The wand's broken?'

'Not exactly,' said the young man, moving closer. 'In fact, everything is all right with it. It's just our usual check-up; all other Aurors have already done with it, and I'm the only one left.'

All Aurors had to examine their wands once a year at Ollivander's. A long-time tradition, recently it became a strictly scheduled procedure: the results of his expertise where written on a stamped parchment and even presented at the court if such a need arose.

'Your usual check-up?' repeated Mr Ollivander in perplexity. Then he looked at the young man again, still bewildered – the latter met his glance calmly, but with some sort of a surprise, seemingly waiting for something.

In was only at that moment when Mr Ollivander understood who his guest was. 'Ah! But of course! I'm sorry, Mr Potter, I should have recognised you at once… So, you've missed the Wand Measuring day? Ah yes; now I recall it; you were at _St Mungo's _–'

'It's nothing serious,' the young man interrupted hastily.

It seemed that he did not want to talk about it, and Mr Ollivander restrained from further inquiries.

'I'm glad to see that you're well, Mr Potter,' he said shortly. 'Let's have a look at your wand, then... But please, do sit down; it'll take some time.'

With that, Mr Ollivander left the counter and walked towards the small round table in the corner. He moved aside the vase with dried flowers that stood there, brushed off the invisible dust from the dark polished surface and put the oil-lamp in the middle. 'Please, take a seat, Mr Potter,' he repeated. 'I'll join you in a moment.'

Mr Ollivander shut the blinds, locked the door and threw another log into the fireplace. The room became somewhat cosier; even the small yellow circle of light from the lamp now looked more bright. He adjusted the shade: several moths, burnt to fragile ashes, stuck to it inside.

Then he turned his attention to the wand, which his guest had already put out. 'Ah, and here it is, Holly and Phoenix feather, eleven inches,' he murmured. The thin piece of wood looked somewhat lonesome and vulnerable against the dark table surface. 'How does it behave?'

'Excellent, as always,' said the young man and then added: 'Thank you.'

'May I?' And after his guest's silent permission, Mr Ollivander carefully took the wand from the table. For several moments, he just held it still, trying to feel its weight in his hand, and then made several simple movements in the air. The wand obeyed rather well, but Mr Ollivander thought that the energy flow was a bit bleak, as if the spirit of the wood was suppressed by some external force. An old curse maybe? Mr Ollivander pulled a big magnifying glass from one of his pockets and brought the wand close to his weary eyes, thoroughly examining every inch of its surface. No, there was no evidence of a hex or anything similar. And yet, the wand just did not feel right in his hand. He moved his palm along the surface and felt a sudden prick, as if a spark had escaped the wood: after-effects of the break that once was mended but still could not be completely erased.

His long and silent study must have unsettled his visitor, and young Mr Potter began to fidget nervously in his chair.

'It works fine,' he repeated. 'It never failed me.'

But Mr Ollivander did not say anything. He put away his magnifying glass and looked at the wand again. Yes, now he could feel it very clearly; the sadness and tiredness of the wood, and at the same time a striving not to fail, not to betray its master. Ah, the spirit of Holly, so strong and just, and yet so fragile… It will never accept its fail, even if the time comes.

Mr Ollivander put the wand back on the table, very slowly and gently, trying not to hurt it more with his pity, and then lifted his eyes at his visitor.

'Yes, I believe you may be right. It's very loyal to you, no doubt in that. And its power has not diminished. So you will certainly have my expert statement, Mr Potter, if you like. But still, there's something that I ought to tell you –' He hesitated.

'What's wrong?' asked the young man, looking genuinely concerned.

For a moment, Mr Ollivander even felt sorry for him, but nevertheless brought himself to tell the truth:

'I think you may be in need of a replacement.'

'I should have a new wand? Why?' To all appearances, he was unpleasantly surprised.

Mr Ollivander cast his eyes down and did not answer at once. It was hard to explain, why it was better to let some things pass, and not to hold on to them any longer.

'People are changing, Mr Potter,' he said slowly. 'A few would come through what you came… unscathed. And your wand… It was broken once. The scar is still there, and I can sense it.'

The young man looked at his wand, and Mr Ollivander read a silent resentment in his expression, as if that remark had deeply offended somebody who was very close to him.

'I think it's still fine,' he said curtly and gently moved his fingers over the wand's sleek surface, caressing the invisible break.

Mr Ollivander understood it perfectly, how it was, to give up something that had almost become a part of your own being. He sighed.

'No need to hold on to what has passed, Mr Potter. Maybe it was a sign that it was broken, a mark for the beginning of something new.'

'And maybe it was a sign that I still could mend it,' the young man replied a bit stubbornly. 'Maybe I was able to keep it because it meant to be mine for lifetime. You'll never know.'

'Yes, now you'll never know,' echoed Mr Ollivander, and this answer left a strange sound in the air, as if bringing back the spirit of 'something other' that his guest so wilfully rejected. 'Some habits are so strong that they become a part of a man's life,' he continued. 'But shall a man let his life consist only of those habits, once signs of his passion, but alive no more? You believe that you have mended it, that you erased what had happened – but some changes are irreversible, and there's harm that cannot be undone.' His eyes fixed on the young man's forehead, where, half-hidden with his black hair, a very thin lighting-shape outline still could be seen. 'You know it, Mr Potter.'

Almost instinctively, the latter tousled his hair.

'Maybe; but there is something about a man that never changes,' he said quietly yet firmly, and raised his eyes at Mr Ollivander.

Something in this answer gave him shivers, for it was unlike anything Mr Ollivander could have expected – and he felt as if he suddenly touched something deep and frightening. It was rather weird, that of all people, young Potter was the one to say such a thing. The thought was so _unmatched_ with the spirit he knew, the spirit the boy always had…

'True; because otherwise, my work would be useless,' Mr Ollivander said at last. 'But why do you believe that your wand is the part of this _something_? It matched your mission, no doubt. But your _essence_? No one can be sure of that.'

'My essence?' Potter frowned. 'And how can you be so sure that it doesn't match my essence?'

'I never said I was sure. I've only suggested that it's possible... This wand is a wand of justice, a wand of response. Not the one that would question; but the one that brings a resolution. Surely not an obvious choice… for an eleven year-old… and certainly not an easy destiny. Yet, it did choose you, and not for nothing.' Ollivander respectfully paused for a moment. 'But you must remember: even if there is a battle you _ought_ to fight, no battle equals a man's life.' He looked at his guest and finished in a low voice, 'Especially, when this man is not the one who chose his battle in the first place.'

A strange silence hanged in the air after these words, making their impression almost mesmerizing. Young Mr Potter sat still, deep in thought, not taking his eyes from the light piece of wood on the table. Mr Ollivander, who usually observed his visitors with a sort of dispassionate understanding rather than compassion, this time, felt a strange awkwardness, as if what was happening now was calling to something in his memory - something hidden so deep that it was almost painful to recollect. He closed his eyes.

'Besides,' he said slowly, 'There is the other wand that is truly yours.'

Mr Potter raised his head, and his eyes flashed. 'The Elder wand?' He gave an odd faint smile, as if recalling some private joke. 'You know, Mr Ollivander, I never felt that it was truly mine. I mean, I know about those succession rules and the true wand masters, but all this is just' - he waved away –'just not quite right. How could a victory in some insignificant skirmish which you don't even remember matter more than everything that has made you what you are? And if the wand is truly answering to something in your very essence, as you always said, how could it change its allegiance – no, not even allegiance, but it's very nature - in a flick of an eye? '

Mr Ollivander, almost stricken with awe, looked at the young man as if seeing him for the first time. 'It doesn't,' he heard himself replying in a voice that was not his own. 'It's not the wand that changes its nature – it's its owner; and his losses shape him just as well as his victories'.

'The Elder Wand belongs to Dumbledore,' said the young man quietly. 'It still does; it always will.' And then he added, almost inaudibly, 'This is why it all happened as it did. It took me a while to understand.'

Mr Ollivander straightened. Now, after what young Potter had just said, it was impossible for him to remain silent.

'I mean your other wand,' he said, not taking away his eyes from his visitor, 'the one with the same core. Now, that one is indeed yours, if it is the _true essence_ that you are after, Mr Potter.'

Even in the dim light of an oil lamp, he could clearly see as the young man on the instant turned very pale, and his eyes became so dark that every spark of life seemed to have disappeared from them.

And then suddenly, he burst out laughing - it was a dry, humourless laugh, and it shut down the conversation like an iron door, erasing every hint of what had remained unsaid between them.

'I wonder,' young Potter said, shaking his head, 'I came here merely to measure my wand; but it appeared that you measured me instead… Are you always trying to do that? To see the essence of things, to perceive changes in them? To read the signs; to predict what is to come?'

'As any good craftsman should, more or less,' answered Mr Ollivander reservedly.

'I've heard talks that you are the only good craftsman left out there,' said Potter, giving him a rather curious look.

But these words of praise did not please the old wandmaker at all. There could be no pleasure in knowing that you are the last one in your trade – the last one in your line.

'It is not so,' he said softly. 'People are changing, as I've said; and their view of magic is changing as well. Those talks are also the sign of changes, as they reflect the spirit of our time… But nothing more.'

'Indeed?' the young man narrowed his eyes. 'Still, I bet you don't like this spirit of modern times, do you, Mr Ollivander?

Spirit of modern times? It was a cheerless image that these words brought to his mind: Mr Ollivander almost felt cold winds, and bare trees, and bleak sky of late November – a sad foreboding of the approaching winter. How strange it was, to ask if he liked it. It was coming, and he could not change it – that was all that should be said. Not the type of a philosophy that a young man – a man of action – would understand, and not the question he would ask. And if he _did _ask it… Mr Ollivander looked at young Potter and met his serious and persistent glance.

'It's not the question one can answer easily,' he said at last. 'They are not better or worse. They are just different.'

'And still, you don't like them,' concluded the young man, as if not noticing this objection. 'You see, Mr Ollivander, things _do_ exist that even you are not ready to accept.'

Was it a sign of revenge in his words?

'That the art of wandmaking is built upon the ancient traditions doesn't mean that I bound to deny all things modern,' Mr Ollivander said calmly, deciding to ignore this hidden mockery. 'But shall I appreciate them just because they are modern, as, probably, many of your friends do?' He smiled, thinking: ah, again and again, those talks of the old order versus the new… Then he became serious. 'Yes, they call them the good years, the years of plenty, the years of freedom, the years of deliverance, when possibilities never existed became open to everyone. And our magic should match; so it is adjusting to our reality, the reality of equality and freedom. New magic should be superior, they say, because it is no more for the 'select few', but for everyone. So it's changing; it's becoming more predictable, more manageable, more practical, more easy-to-use, more logical, perhaps.'

'Or more Mugglish?'

'It is not Mugglish,' said Mr Ollivander quickly. 'I think that Muggles just were the first to experience those changes. But it's wrong to say that Muggles impose their views of life on us. No, certainly not. Those changes, whatever you think of them, were brought to us not by Muggles. They were brought by wizards themselves. And so the praise and the blame are both ours.'

'The blame?' the young man repeated. 'But what's wrong with the attempt to make magic more open?'

'There is the other side to each benefit, and at the foundation of every victory, there's always a loss. Our future, where everybody is equal, everybody is happy is no exception. There's the other side to all these gains, and a quite unpleasant one.'

'You mean there are certain forces that won't like it? That will deny us and our new order?' inquired his visitor, all his look betraying his anticipation.

'Certain forces that will object what you've done? Oh, yes, there are, and we all can already feel their presence…' Mr Ollivander's eyes were focused somewhere in the darkness outside the small circle of light, as if he was expecting to see them right there, in the calmness of his shop. 'Only, I'm afraid, they are not the enemies you are expecting to find, Mr Potter.'

'Ah, is it so? Are they so well-hidden?'

'Well hidden? One may say so, because they are not hiding at all.'

The young man cast a quick glance at the wandmaker: for him, this remark obviously sounded very mysterious.

'You seem to know a great deal about them,' he said at last.

Sometimes ignorance could be a blessing, thought Mr Ollivander, and a feeble smile touched his lips. 'Unfortunately, all my knowledge – if we assume I do indeed have some – is useless for you, Mr Potter,' he said.

'Well, it's possible…But I still think it would be better if you simply tell me what you know.'

The old wandmaker just shook his head and sighed. 'If you wish, Mr Potter. Only these forces are not the ones that anyone who fights the darkness is looking for. Not the ones he'll ever find.'

'And why it is that?' His guest looked utterly perplexed.

'Because they are not _evil_,' said Ollivander simply. 'They are not even something you could see or touch. There are no people who embody them; neither Dark Lords, nor armies of their minions. There's no one whom you could point at and say: "Yes, _He_ is the enemy who came to destroy everything that is me; who came to strip me of my life, my soul, my essence"… No, you could not.'

But the frightening solemnity of these words did not seem to affect Mr Potter.

'I'm afraid I don't understand you,' he said, frowning. 'Are you saying that we're to fight some supernatural power? Or elemental force?' There was a clear distrust in his voice that he did not try to hide.

Mr Ollivander said nothing.

'And then again, what this invisible something has against us?'

'Who knows? Maybe this _something_ doesn't like how we treat our magic; how we let our rationality to control it. Maybe it's magic itself that punishes us in that way – tired of being measured, divided, broken apart… This conflict is centuries old, Mr Potter, and maybe it's the greatest conflict we ever known – a battle not of people, but of principles. Even in the simplest moments of our life, this conflict reveals itself; and it becomes harder and harder to ignore its omens. The spotless refinement of modern magic co-exists with the growing inability to see its simplest manifestations. The various techniques of "easiest and most-efficient spell casting" adjoin with the increasing failure to produce any charm naturally. Even our progress is not unconditional. What seems to be one of the greatest things created by human mind can turn into the disaster most terrible… We think that what happened at Cold Waters was merely an accident, but there's nothing accidental in it. This catastrophe was bound to happen.'

'And what do you know about the Cold Factory?' The young man momentarily became very tensed.

The Cold Factory, thought Mr Ollivander, what a good name it was. It perfectly matched the principles upon which it was built. Perfectly matched the spirit of our age. A scrying mirror, in which our future was reflected. The Great Cold... Yes, there _are_ enemies that will never be defeated.

'You're still trying to find some evil design behind it all; you think there is _somebody_ who could be blamed for what had happened… But the secret is that there's no one there, Mr Potter.'

Mr Ollivander fell silent. A fire crackled soothingly in the fireplace, but it was unable to drive away the spirits of what was to come.

'When the tide comes, there's no drop that leads it,' he went on. 'What happened at the factory is only a beginning, a sign of what is expecting us. Yes, the cold times are coming upon us, Mr Potter, and there's nothing we can do about it.'

Harry Potter shook his head, as if trying to chase away the dark images created by Mr Ollivander's words.

'But it still doesn't explain what happened with the Factory. The tide you're talking about… you know, I think I do understand what you mean,' – he paused for a moment – 'but it's, well, just metaphysics. And the damage there was by no means abstract. There must be some other reason for it; something more… real, more tangible.'

'Human intentions are never tangible,' said Mr Ollivander, 'It's their consequences that are tangible. The ideas that made the Factory creation possible didn't exist in a void. They were the children of their time, just like anything else… And like anything else, they bore the marks of their origin.'

'Marks of their origin?' The young man winced. 'Are you saying that something was not right with the initial idea? That there was some flaw in the project that brought the Factory to its ultimate destruction? Do you know anything particular about it?'

'You need not to know the details in order to predict an outcome,' answered the wandmaker.

But his guest was still looking at him with distrust. 'Then how can you be so sure that there were flaws in the initial design?'

The usual calmness and detachedness betrayed the old wandmaker, and he even clasped his hands: all his attempts to explain were in vain.

'Ah, Mr Potter, all the time, you're making the same mistake. You're still looking for something evil, something hostile, something one should fight. But it is wrong, all wrong. What you're looking for just isn't there.'

'Then why can't you tell me where I should look?'Potter almost cried.

'You should look into yourself first, Mr Potter,' said Mr Ollivander. 'You are trying to find the source of evil – but where does all evil originate if not in a heart of a man? Sometimes what man perceives as invasion is just the natural way of life. What man sees as danger is just something _other_, something that is not him. Of course, that _other_ sometimes would put an end to the world he knew – and thus far, he considers it as danger… Every man will fight if something threatens his integrity. Every man will object changes if he sees them as a threat to his essence. And usually, he does,' he finished quietly. 'But there is no evil in this world – only things that you _chose_ to see as evil.'

This time, young Potter remained silent for several minutes, and his green eyes became unusually dark.

'For me, it is not so, Mr Ollivander,' he said at last. 'You say that there's no evil? That we all are parts of some greater universal harmony that we do not understand? Maybe, but then we humans are too small to perceive this perfection in all its shining glory. And I – I'm just a human, after all. So when I see a crime – I know that it is a crime. For me, an unjust deed always remains unjust. They are wrong to me; they are _evil_. When I see such things, I try to eliminate them, that's all, and I'm not thinking of some higher purpose or, say, greater good. In fact, it's all very simple. And when you are telling me about all these great disasters that are expecting us and then say that it's just the proper way of nature – well, I just can't agree with you.'

'I don't welcome this future,' Mr Ollivander answered in the voice as quiet as ever. 'And it doesn't please me to see how we are losing our magic. But why do you think that it is the result of some mythical absolute evil? Maybe we are losing it because we should lose it. Why do we think that good – is just what we are? Why do we think that evil is just what prevents us from being who we believe ourselves to be? We are fighting the darkness, and the cold, and the death. But we are blind as always to see what we are really fighting. We are blind to see the true reason why we are fighting it. Perhaps, if we saw it, we'd understand why we are bound to lose. And then, it would be easy for us to accept what comes… Yes, to accept. It's the only way,' the old wandmaker lifted his eyes, 'though not all of us can do this. I could only pity those who cannot, for their loneliness will be indeed unseen.'

For a moment, he stared at the dim yellow circle from the lamp, as if this small light contained the way of saving all the lonely souls of those who disagree…

'I think that you are wrong, Mr Ollivander,' said the young man simply and rose from his seat. 'Sometimes you have to fight even if you know that it is impossible to win. Because otherwise, you have no right to call yourself a human. You have no right to claim your existence.'

The last words made Mr Ollivander's heart freeze, and he looked at young Potter again, terrified with the most weird idea that had just come into his mind. What he had just said… Could it be that all these years –

No. Better not think of it. Mr Ollivander also raised and handed him a parchment with the results of the wand expertise.

'Well, if you feel that this is what you need to do – _to claim your existence_… Then I believe you should be off to do so, Mr Potter,' he said, bowing his head as though in respectful humility. 'You still have a long journey ahead of you.'

The conversation was over. Of course, Mr Ollivander understood how little he had been able to help the young man in his search – but there was nothing he could do. Ah, if only the boy would see what he really was looking for… but maybe it was good that he could not. He need not know how desperate that quest was.

…His visitor's figure had long ago disappeared in the darkness of the cold November night, but Mr Ollivander was still standing at the door, staring at the black void outside, as if welcoming the chill that he had predicted – and still thinking about his night guest.

Was he right? Was he wrong? Maybe, he should have told him what he saw? But then, what good would come of it?

'See it easy,' said the sweet Maple.

'All will pass; this will pass too,' summed up the detached Pine.

'You did what you should,' said the just Holly.

Only Rowan, the reflection of his true essence, remained silent; and so his doubts would lie heavy on his soul.

* * *

_AN_: Well, the philosophical part is over… BTW, there were some clues here (though very tiny), for those patient enough to make their way through this rubbish :) Anyway, thank you!

_Next chapter_: Harry travels to the former Azkaban – a new home for the Division of Experimental Charms…


	14. A Better Place for Solitude

_AN:_ Well, this is a surprisingly early update ;) Again, thank you all who read this, and my eternal gratitude to you, _Star Mirage_, for encouraging me to continue.

_This chapter_: Harry's journey to Azkaban was not free from surprises… and even more surprises await him there.

* * *

**Chapter 14. A Better Place for Solitude**

Harry opened his eyes to see a small square of chilly blue sky through a window above him. The storm must have ended while he had been sleeping, and the roar of the waves somewhere below was soothingly muted. His mind was unusually lucid, almost detached: for a very long time, his sleep tonight had been quiet, with no disturbing dreams that would have sucked him into the never-ending labyrinth of exhausting nightmares.

He stretched himself and reached out for his watch, still in that dreamily languish mood. It was half past nine; he had already overslept for half an hour at least. No surprise, considering all that happened the day before. It was a pure luck that he got here in the end at all. With that thought, he moved out from the bed and winced: his entire body was aching terribly.

…From the very beginning, this journey was a suicide trip.

Not once Harry regretted that he had not waited till the next day, as the old man at the lighthouse had advised. Maybe it would have been wise to spend the night there and wait till the confirmation would come, but he, eager to get to his destination as soon as possible, decided to take a risk.

And this appeared to be a mistake. The wind, already strong when he departed, several hours later turned into a real gale. Fitful gusts made the broom control severely harder, and he had to strain every nerve in order not to fall. But the last third of his journey, when he entered the field of never-ending rain, was a true nightmare. He had barely crossed the outer line when it became freezingly cold. His clothes immediately got crusted with ice; he could hardly see a thing through the thick wall of rain pouring as if from every direction; his wet numb hands were constantly slipping on the broom-handle.

There could be no doubt as to what it meant. Heavy storms were common for that area of the Northern Sea, but this one was by no means a usual storm. It was the Rain Ring, a part of Azkaban control line. For some reason, it had not been disabled, though people in the Fortress definitely should have done it.

Certainly, the best solution was to turn back immediately. But Harry did not do that. He thought that he had already made more than two thirds of the way, that he could fly the broom well enough to get through the Ring, and that some stupid rain, even such a downpour, was not something unseen. So he caught his breath and went on, silently cursing those morons on the station who had forgotten to put the defences down.

No need to tell that this decision had also been a mistake. He was so busy fighting the storm, rain and cold that he completely forgot about the danger much more ominous, about which he had been told earlier – the Surge. Not sooner than the surface beneath him gained that unnatural glassy appearance had he remembered the warning, and it made his blood curdle, because it was already too late.

He did not panic. He did not even turned back to check how far he was from it; just clenched his teeth and pressed out the best that he and his broom were still capable of. He should be already within a mile from the Fortress; so he had a reasonable chance to stay relatively unharmed...

The narrow ribbon of land was hardly seen, and the wild roar behind his back was growing stronger and stronger. When it became almost unbearable, Harry directed the broom strictly upward, hoping that it was early enough not to be hit by the Surge and at the same time late enough for it not to react to his movement. Perfect timing was vital there.

The roar below turned to a violent groan: a good sign that that his desperate manoeuvre was successful. Then he hurried down, not giving the Surge an opportunity for another attempt. He landed right into the shallow water, beyond the reach of the formidable water sentinel, and his weakened legs gave way when they touched the ground, forcing him to fell. He leaped to his feet immediately, but not fast enough to avoid the last gift from the Surge: the huge mass of water fell upon, beating him so hard that he dropped the broom and for several moments completely lost the ability to breath.

But that effort must have exhausted the wave, and it recoiled, deprived of its power but still groaning menacingly. Harry followed it with his eyes: well, the thing had got at least the broom, if not the man. Much as he regretted that loss, he was in no state to claim it back. And, truth be said, he did not even regret it that much. He was alive and unharmed, and he was standing on the solid ground at last…

A sudden feeling that he was being watched made him turn around sharply. The beach was empty; there was not even a sign of human presence. Aside from several queer groups of rocks, looking somewhat gloomy against the bright bone-coloured sand, the scenery seemed utterly desolate. The narrow stripe of sand was bordered with steep cliffs, and a huge colossus of Azkaban Fortress towered above them, dominating the place.

The dreary scenery was sickening – a mood that must have been cultivated here, Harry said to himself, shuddering. The feeling that someone was watching him did not disappear, but he decided to ignore it for now; it was probably just his imagination. Who would be here, and what for?

But at this moment he realized that, in fact, it would be quite natural to expect that somebody would be here. Under normal circumstances, that is. People here obviously had been informed about his arrival; so they should have met him. And yet, no one came out… Though why wonder? If they had not even disabled the protection mechanisms on the way here… Merlin knows what could have happened if somebody else had been in his place, somebody not so good in flying… But what was the reason for that? A negligence? A not-so-friendly joke? A specific welcome? Or did they _really_ want to have him killed?

He had no answers, nor did he have enough strength for guesswork. Damn, he was so tired that he could not even get angry properly. Well, thought Harry almost vengefully, he would tell them all about it when he got up there; no doubt. They would explain all that had happened here… And Harry needed these explanations; he really did. Because all he could say now was that something here was definitely not as it should be.

oxXxo

…Something here was not as it should be, Harry repeated absentmindedly. That was the last thought he remembered; he had no idea how he had got into this room. Somebody must have taken him here; that was obvious, but why he did not remember anything?

He looked out of the window, but it was too narrow, and the walls too thick, so he could not see much of the outside scenery. The room must be somewhere rather high, and it faced north; that was all he was able to figure out – well, with the exception of the useless now fact that the weather today was perfectly calm. A good time for a little excursion, he thought; of course, he needed to get dressed first…

His clothes, clean and dry, lay on the chair, neatly folded. On the small table at the corner stood a wash-basin and a pitcher. Harry touched the water: it was burning cold. Well, still better than nothing.

…He had almost done dressing himself when he heard the strange grinding sound, coming from the door, as if somebody was scratching it from the outside.

'Who's there?' he said, putting aside the comb.

The scratching stopped at once, and Harry heard something like a snort, followed by a sound of tapping feet, swiftly moving away.

He jumped to the door and flung it open. There was no one there - the hallway was empty. Still, Harry knew that somebody had been there just a moment ago; he could almost feel a movement in the air. He stepped outside, going to check the hallway, and immediately stumbled upon something, hitting his foot quite painfully.

He looked down and froze in perplexity. Several stones lay there, on the dented and dirty marble floor; roundish and worn smooth by water, they looked exactly like the sea pebbles he saw on the shore yesterday. It was obvious that the stones were left here purposely, for they lay not in a random heap, but instead were arranged in a pattern: a straight row of six and then the seventh, a bit more whitish than the others, above them.

Harry bent down and carefully examined the stones. There was nothing unusual about them; they were pebbles just like any others. The purpose of such a strange gift, however, was absolutely beyond his understanding. If it was a joke, then a very odd one. If it was a message, then its meaning completely escaped him. Still bewildered, Harry took one of the stones – the white one – and moved ahead, along the passage, hoping to find this mysterious stone gatherer; and if not, then, at least, to find _somebody_ at all.

That part of the building must have come through very hard times somewhere in the past. The marble tiles were broken; the walls, once apparently decorated with paintings, were bare and black from soot. The archway ceiling, all freaked with cracks, was dangerously unstable: in some areas peeled off pieces of stucco covered the floor entirely, and they crumbled under Harry's feet at every step, snapping like dry twigs.

Several rooms that opened up to the passage were in no better condition. Harry tried to peek into some, merely out of curiosity, and was always met with the same state of utter ruin and desolation, different only in its varieties. Broken and burned furniture, piles of scorched papers, assorted and unidentifiable splinters – they were everywhere. Sometimes the contents of the rooms were less predictable; for example, Harry came upon one full of old water clocks, most of them broken, and then another one, stuffed with thousands fossils, each one in its own box, carefully labelled and sealed. Somehow the bizarrerie of those hallways reminded him of the underground Archives under the Ministry, and he wondered if, in time, all such abandoned spaces would share the same destiny: after its creators gone, would they be no more than storehouses of forgotten intentions, concealing the stories of the past no one would be able to decipher...

All he could tell was that the past of this place was hardly cheerful: almost in all rooms he visited, walls and ceiling were stained with dark spots of some liquid that looked suspiciously like the dried blood.

After a half an hour of this 'excursion' he started to worry: he had walked through more than a mile of those passages, undistinguishable as twins, and saw hundreds of ravaged rooms; and yet there were no changes in the scenery. So, he forced himself to pay more attention to where he was going and began to memorise the 'landmarks': a huge crystal chandelier with some of its pendants still intact; an empty aquarium, containing the skeletons of its former inhabitants; a burned rickety safe…

And at last, he broke free from the labyrinth of those junked passages and got out to a staircase. The contrast of scale was so startling that he stood still, looking in awe at the rough but impressive grandeur of that construction.

The stairwell was square-shaped, its side no less than a hundred feet long. The stairs themselves, carved from simple grey stone, were fifteen feet wide; they run along the wall, with their other side open to the well. There were no railings neither any other sort of barrier. Harry carefully looked down and stepped away immediately, feeling giddy: it was definitely not the safest staircase he had seen.

So – up or down? As far as he could discern, there were quite a number of floors in either direction. But the common sense was telling him that the inhabitants of this place, no matter how strange and extravagant they might be, would rather settle close to the surface. It meant down.

And so Harry began his descend, trying to keep away from the dangerous opening of the stairwell.

Unlike the sideway passages, this staircase seemed to have remained relatively intact. Even the tapestries – huge seamless panoramas, running around all four walls of each floor – were undamaged. Their colours had noticeably faded, and somewhere they became frayed to the padding, but one could still descry the subject of each picture: as Harry had understood very soon, all of them were dedicated to various kinds of tortures and torments, and in that tortures and torments of a truly epic scale.

He stopped to make out the details of one of the tapestries that had caught his attention. To a first glance, it seemed to depict a pit of ice, full with moaning sinners, frozen to stone yet still stretching their hands up there, as if to the daylight – but instead of the Sun, there was a pitch black hole. All that scene created a strong impression of unbearable, deathly cold, and it was strange: Harry always thought that the hell was made from fire, not from ice…

Harry still stood there, staring at the tapestry, deep in his thoughts, when suddenly a very distinct voice from behind interrupted his contemplation.

'_Midway upon a journey of our life, I found myself within a forest dark,__for the straightforward pathway had been lost_.'

Harry almost jumped and turned around sharply, drawing out his wand. A tall man in ragged robes stood there, just at the hand distance, and, as it seemed at first, was glaring at him. Only, his eyes were closed shut.

'Who are you?'

But the stranger remained silent. He just stood there, his pale round face turned towards Harry.

'Hello?' Harry cautiously made a step ahead, trying to have a better look of the strange man. 'Do you live there?'

Suddenly, the man opened his eyes, and Harry gasped: they were absolutely blank.

'Lost the straightforward pathway, are you, dear sir?' said the man. He had a rather pleasant, deep voice, but the monotone notes in it created the impression of something sickening and unhealthy.

'Hey, are you all right?' said Harry, moving closer and preparing his wand.

The man blinked, turned his head with a discrete, almost mechanic movement, and jumped into the opening of the stairwell so quickly that Harry did not even understand what happened.

He rushed forward on the instant. A mental picture of a disfigured dead body, lying down there on the stones in the pool of blood, was so vivid that he almost forgot his own fears.

Luckily, these fears were not to come to life today: it appeared that only several feet parted him from the ground floor. Engrossed in studying the tapestries, Harry had not noticed as he descended down.

He breathed out with relief, looking at the empty space at the bottom of the stairs, and lowered the wand. His hands were shaking.

oxXxo

Five minutes later, Harry stood in a well-lit and a very much ordinary looking hallway, facing the polished wooden door from behind which the words of conversation – a soothingly normal human conversation – were heard.

He knocked – and, not waiting for an answer, came in.

Two men were sitting at the large dinner table – certainly too big for them two – and, it seemed, were having their lunch. As he entered, they immediately stopped talking and turned to face him.

'Hello,' said Harry with a radiant smile, coming closer. 'Nice day today, isn't it?'

The taller of the two, a brown-haired man in his thirties, with pleasant but rather plain face, put his fork down.

'An, it seems that our mysterious stranger is indeed quite unharmed,' he said. 'Please, do have a seat and join us. You must be starving.'

Harry did not have to be asked twice. He sat across from those two, choosing a seat that would allow him to see their faces clearly, and put on his plate some bacon and eggs. He was indeed very hungry.

As he ate, he could not help throwing a glance or two at his vis-à-vis. While the first one, the man who greeted him, conducted himself with perfect calm and confidence, the other, an aged wizard in navy robes and a round academic cap, was rather uneasy; Harry understood it from the efforts he made in order not to look in Harry's direction.

But at last, the wizard in the cap could not hold it any longer. He angrily threw his dinner napkin on the table and turned to Harry.

'Such irresponsibility! A scandalous thoughtlessness! Yes, young man, a truly scandalous. And after all that, you just walk in here and say hello and drink your coffee as if nothing had happened!'

The younger of the two wizards, who seemingly possessed not only a greater self-control, but also a greater authority, gave the man in the cap a very meaningful look.

However, this was not enough to stop the infuriated wizard.

'You could've been killed! Smashed to pieces! Or drowned to death out there, at the sea, and nobody would even know! It's not a sea-stroll, young man; the area is restricted, re-stric-ted! Such conceit! Who do you think you are?'

'Claudius!' said his colleague admonishingly, and the old man silenced, breathing heavily.

Meanwhile, Harry carefully put down his cup of coffee and looked at the enraged wizard with calm curiosity.

'Well, if you put it _that_ way,' he said, giving the old man a cheerful smile, 'I think I am the Senior Inspector for the Committee of Prevention, if this is what you wanted to know. And I also think that it is rather _I_ who should ask questions at the moment, Mr' – Harry quickly turned over in his mind the names and faces of the Station's personnel – 'Mr Caph, right?'

'Y-yes,' said Caph diffidently. "The young ignoramus's" position seemed to have caused a noticeable impression on him.

Then Harry turned to his colleague. 'And you must be Rolf Scamander, the Head of the Experimental Charms Division,' he said. 'Nice to meet you, Mr Scamander.'

But Scamander was not confused so easily.

'The pleasure's mine. But would you mind telling us _your_ name, Inspector?' he inquired imperturbably.

Instead of an answer, Harry took out his personal Auror seal and, without saying a word, passed it over to Scamander. The latter studied it with the thoroughness that looked almost insulting. At last, he put the seal down and lifted his eyes at Harry.

'Well then, welcome to Azkaban, Mr Potter,' he said with the same pleasant, but distant calmness.

'Mr Potter?' The old Dr Caph leaned forward. 'But– but it can't be _the_ Mr Potter?'

Harry still hated this question in all its varieties, even though he had plenty of time to become accustomed to his unique position in the Wizarding society. But Dr Caph had already grasped the answer from the curt glance that Scamander threw at him, gave out a weak 'Oh!' and silenced.

'I must admit that we haven't expected you, Mr Potter,' said Scamander. 'We thought that the Inspection was postponed till the next week; we got the confirmation just yesterday's afternoon.'

'May I see it?' asked Harry.

'No, I'm afraid not.' Scamander paused for a moment and then added more peacefully: 'All our correspondence is verbal, as you probably know.'

But of course! Neither owls, nor ravens, nor any other birds – with the possible exception of phoenixes – could get past the system of Azkaban defences. Even for men it was hardly possible; so yesterday clearly was his lucky day.

'There must be some misunderstanding,' said Harry, hiding his anxiety behind a polite smile. 'I suggest that you contact the Law Enforcement Department as soon as possible.'

This time, Scamander hesitated before replying: 'I'll certainly do that. But, unfortunately, I cannot do it right now. I'm afraid that all communication with the outer world is impossible at the moment… The Surge damaged the ether stratum when it was pursuing you. We failed to tame it; it was too late when we saw you.'

It must have happened during his last jump before he reached the shore, thought Harry.

'So you did see me?' he clarified.

'Claudius spotted you first through his telescope. You scared us to death: we never expected that someone would risk a broom flight here… I'm even terrified to think what you've been through, with all the defences active and in full power. Luckily, we were in time to disenchant the Quicksands; they'd have certainly got you when you collapsed.'

'Then I believe I owe you a life debt,' said Harry with a smile. 'At least I apologize for all the names I was secretly calling you in my mind… I even thought that you wanted to have me killed.'

'Well, Mr Potter, if you were less lucky yesterday, I'd be certainly blaming myself that I did kill you,' said Scamander. 'But all is well that ends well… Though, I think that for us here, this is by no means the end, but only the beginning. When are you planning to start? I suppose you'll take this day off?'

'I've already begun, in a sense, Mr Scamander,' said Harry. 'Why, I have plenty of questions already. For example, about this mysterious item.' He drew the white pebble out of his pocket and put in on the table. 'Somebody left a couple of those things behind my door… Could you possible explain me what it could mean?'

This question clearly threw the hosts into confusion: Scamander cast down at once, while Caph blushed. For several moments, they both remained silent.

Suddenly, Caph began to apologise, fidgeting nervously: 'Oh, we're so sorry, Mr Potter, for inconvenience; it must be one of our trainees here, he's such a prankster; you know, those youths can be intolerable sometimes –' he fussed, but then Scamander stopped him with the reply most ordinary and polite:

'It seems that it was just a joke, Mr Potter. A rather silly one, I'd say, but completely harmless. Most probably, my colleague is right, and it was one of the young men here… And we will certainly make sure that it won't happen again, since it has upset you so much.'

Somehow Harry was not pleased with this explanation at all. Neither Caph's nervousness, nor Scamander's serene smile could drive away his suspicions. They obviously knew much more about that 'silly joke'.

'And how many trainees do you have?' he asked. 'How many people are there at the station at the moment?'

'Not many,' said Scamander. 'There are only three full-timers – that is Dr Caph, Ms Lovegood and myself - and two trainees. That makes five of us... Ah, excuse me, six.'

At that correction, Caph fidgeted uneasily in his seat, but Scamander continued imperturbably:

'There's old Dusty; he's not one of us. I mean, he's not from the Department of Mysteries at all. He's been around from the very beginning, when this place was still a prison.' He silenced for a moment. 'He's a Dementor-driver.'

'I see,' said Harry cautiously. 'Well, somebody has to do the job.' What an irony it was: he caught himself at almost repeating Hermione's words… He sighed. 'I presume he's not that fan of Dante I met on the way here?'

'The fan of Dante –?'

'Yes, such a tall round-faced man; greeted me with a quote from _Inferno…'_

Again, Harry could not miss the very strange look that Scamander and Caph gave each other.

'I'm afraid I don't know whom you are talking about,' said Scamander at last. 'Are you sure that it was a real person, not a ghost or Inferi?'

'He seemed to me very much alive,' Harry replied with a grin.

'Ah, but you never know,' said Caph hastily. 'Not in the place like this one. Just yesterday, I met a young lady in white up there in my tower; and – imagine, Mr Potter – the flowers from her wreath were still smelling.'

Harry could bet that he invented this story just now. But was he indeed sure that the man he met was alive? There was undoubtedly something very wrong about him… But a ghost so _real_?

'Well, maybe you're right,' he surrendered. 'Anyway, if he's one of you, I'll certainly will find out later, during the interviews. I think it would be better to speak with each one of you individually. Of course, in your free time. I don't want to distract anyone from their… experiments.'

Scamander put aside the napkin and rose from his seat.

'I think you'll start with me?'

Harry hesitated for a moment. 'To be perfectly honest, I'd like first to see my friend, Luna Lovegood. Where's she?'

'I believe she's in her study,' said Scamander, but then, noticing how Caph cast down guiltily, frowned: 'Is she not? What do you mean – she went there again?'

Now, for the first time since Harry met him, some emotions had shone through Scamander's phlegmatic and good-natured façade. _Quite interesting_, he thought.

'I'll send the boys to find her,' said Caph quickly, also rising. 'Don't worry, Rolf. They'll bring her back. She'll be happy to meet… e-eh… our guest. Everything will be fine.'

As he left, Scamander seemed to pull himself together, for the explanation he gave Harry sounded very calm: 'Luna – I mean Ms Lovegood – she likes lonely walks. Nothing wrong with that, of course… But some places here are not quite safe for this kind of pastime.'

'Indeed?' inquired Harry ironically. 'You know, Mr Scamander, I somehow also had exactly this impression.' For a moment, he thought about his adventures this morning. 'Well then; it seems that now I have no choice but to begin with you, as you've suggested.'

'Then I think we'd better come to my place,' said Scamander. 'In any case, you probably would like to see our official reports, would you, Mr Potter? I mean, all your predecessors believed that they positively needed to read them in order to understand what we are doing here.'

There was almost imperceptible contempt in Scamander's last remark, which, to Harry, clearly implied that, in fact, all previous visiting committees studied only the official annual reports and nothing else.

'Certainly, I will look through them all,' said Harry and smiled. 'To begin with.' Yes, Scamander would be quite surprised to find that the meticulousness of _this particular_ inspector far exceeded that of anyone who might have come here before.

And maybe, he would regret that. Because Harry had strong suspicion that this phlegmatic and polite Mr Scamander definitely had something to hide.

* * *

_AN_. Well, thank you for reading, as always! Rolf Scamander is sort of canon character, since Rowling mentioned him in her interviews. The information about his particular interest to Luna comes from the same source. Rowling also said that he and Luna will marry eventually… Well, not in this fic, I'm afraid :(

_Next chapter_: Harry continues his inspection and meets Luna.


	15. Nine Stones

AN: it's been a while since the last update, I know... Well, my free time goes mainly to GMAT preparation now. So, finally, I decided to put Chapter 15 online despite I'm not happy with it :( I hope I'll edit the entire story someday.

Thank you to all my readers and reviewers.

Star Mirage: well, in our last conversation you almost guessed it :) So keep trying. Also, I'd like to thank you for not letting me abandon this story.

Anubis Rex: Thank you very much for your support! You are right: the events in Chernobyl have influenced me - in particular, the various interpretations of these events (there are still several theories of what exactly happened that night and why). I'm trying to do my best with this story; but English is not my native language, and, unfortunately, this fact affects my writing :(

* * *

_This chapter_: Scamander keeps to himself and Luna's ideas are as crazy as ever…

Warning: contains a picture drawn by me! Sort of.

**Chapter 15. The Nine Stones**

'Here we are, Mr Potter; the reports are on those two shelves. So make yourself comfortable. I'll be in the next room, if you need something.'

Harry looked around. Scamander's study was exactly as he had imagined: light and spacious, with very simple décor and the bookcases running along the walls. The space free of books was occupied by various quaint metal devices that for some reason seemed quite familiar to him. Harry looked closely: yes, he had definitely seen some of them in Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts. How long ago it was… One of the devices looked particularly interesting, reminding him of –

'And which exactly branch of magic are your interested in, Mr Scamander?' he asked, bending over the curious silver mechanism. 'Would you mind if I ask?'

Scamander cautiously watched his movements.

'In certain fields of higher mathmagic. Mostly I research immaterial crystal-like structures,' he said. 'That is, during the last few years.'

'Which structures you say?'

'With fractional dimension,' said Scamander with the same unruffled composure, earnestly looking into Harry's eyes.

Harry silently cursed.

'And does it have any other name? In human language?'

Scamander laughed. 'Well, one may say that I study alternate life-forms of the adjoining spaces.'

'Indeed?' Harry carefully touched a small lever on one side of the device, and a pendulum below it swung. 'And I somehow thought that you were interested in the problems of time, like your predecessor, Herbert Rosier... By the way, what kind of a device is this?'

'Well, Mr Potter, you see, academic interests are hardly hereditary in such sense… neither they are the subject to managerial succession,' said Scamander, observing him intently. 'As to your question – this is a measuring device of a sort; we use it for studying the composition of various spiritual forms. Please, be careful; it's rather fragile.'

Harry immediately withdrew his hands. 'I've seen the device like this one once, –' he pointed to the glimmering silver mechanism – 'It can tell if a person's soul is split, right?'

Scamander raised his eyebrows, seemingly taken aback, but then shrugged and said, 'Well, if you put it to such use – then, I think, it could.'

'I see,' said Harry and silenced. Back then, at Dumbledore's office, he saw two snakes emerging from the top of the device, but this time, there was none. He sighed. 'Well, at least, _my_ soul is intact. That's a comfort.'

'Yes, perhaps... for the time being,' muttered Scamander, his eyes fixed pensively on the swinging pendulum.

Harry drew himself up sharply. 'What do you mean?'

Scamander seemed somewhat reluctant to answer, but then condescended to explanation. 'It's moving, see?' He nodded towards the device. 'It indicates the disturbance in the flow of your inner time. So I'd say that at some point of life, your soul was damaged. Or will be, in the future.' Then he smiled and added, rising his cold grey eyes at Harry: 'I'd be very careful if I were you, Mr Potter.'

To say the truth, Harry did not like either that answer or the hidden threat behind it. 'You seem to know a great deal about all this stuff, Mr Scamander,' he said. 'Are such things also within the sphere of your professional interests?'

'If by "such things" you mean the properties of time waves or the characteristics of temporal resonation, then undoubtedly yes,' said Scamander with the same nonchalant civility.

Rolf's manner of speaking only emphasised that air of intellectual arrogance that annoyed Harry so much in certain Ravenclaws. Still, his reply provided an excellent opportunity to change topic: 'Ah, speaking of the properties of time. I'm glad that you've mentioned this, Mr Scamander. Certainly, you are familiar with the subject as no one else. After all, weren't you a member of the expert group that investigated the Cold Factory incident?'

Scamander gave a start, and Harry congratulated himself: it was evident that his words clearly hit the mark.

'And what this fact has to do with the purpose of your inspection, Mr Potter, if I may ask?' inquired Scamander, almost succeeding in his attempt to sound calm.

'Nothing,' said Harry. 'It just happened that I held the subsequent inquest, and your name was familiar to me from the case materials. By the way, your report was rather insightful; at least, for me… In fact, I've hoped to meet you for quite a long time.'

For several moments, Scamander just stared at the papers on his table, and then smirked and shook his head. 'Ah, so that's what this all was about… Now I see.' He lifted his head and looked at Harry again - this time, for some reason, with undisguised enmity. 'And I wondered why it was _you,_ of all people, who came to inspect us. I hope that the Ministry doesn't see my report as the irrefutable proof of my, let's say, political unreliability?'

'And why do you believe they should?' asked Harry quickly, a bit suspicious of this sudden hostility.

Scamander narrowed his eyes. 'You wouldn't be asking such a question if you indeed _have _read that report, Mr Potter.'

'Well, I have; but, to say the truth, the essence of your argument with your colleague from Germany has eluded me,' said Harry. 'So if you would be so kind –'

But Scamander, it seemed, had decided not to talk about it anymore, and just waved away:

'It doesn't matter now. The case is closed; so what is the point in my explanations? What was the point even back then? Who knows - my opponent even might have been right; now I think it's quite probable…' While saying all this, Scamander did not look at Harry at all, searching through the papers at one of the bookcases. At last, he turned to Harry again and dumped out a large pile of folders on the table just in front of him. 'Here,' he said coldly, still avoiding his gaze. 'The Station's annual reports from the year of ninety-nine till now. The appendixes, too; the experiments, the prospects – they all are here. Just as you asked.'

Harry cast an indifferent glance at the dusty heap of papers. He had no intention to give up so easily.

'Your attitude is quite surprising, Mr Scamander,' he said a bit crossly. 'People say that you were much more eloquent at the times of your expert meetings. And now, you are refusing to answer so simple a question.'

But Scamander kept a stubborn silence. Harry waited for a minute, and then shrugged and opened the first report from the pile.

'Well then,' he said with a made-up lightness. 'I see your point. Of course it's none of your concern if something similar happens again. You certainly will be safe here at Azkaban; so why worry?'

Here Scamander gave way. 'What makes you think that it will happen again?' he asked quickly.

Harry immediately put the report back.

'It is not me. It is you, my dear Mr Scamander, who thinks so. Perhaps I am not a specialist in all these esoteric problems of time and its properties, but I was able to understand as much as that from your report. And in this light, I find your present unwillingness to cooperate somewhat… disturbing.'

For several moments, they looked at each other, not saying a word. Then Scamander sighed and waved his hand wearily.

'All right, Mr Potter, I'll try to explain. Only, don't think that it will be anything extraordinary.'

He moved aside the dusty pile of files and sat right on the table, face-to-face with Harry.

'You must be expecting to hear something extremely dramatic,' he began. 'A chilling tale of a world-scale conspiracy, no less. Or that I will reveal you some 'terrible truth' which the Committee decided to conceal… So I'll tell you right away: there was nothing of the kind. Nothing mysterious. Nothing epic, so to speak. Just different views on certain magic practices, and that's all. No diversion, no crime, no purposely made damage. Oh, and I really _don't_ think that the Ministry try to impose some evil views on us, if that is the reason for your visit here.' With that, he smiled ironically. 'You know, Mr Potter, if you believe me to be some sort of a fighter against the system –'

'I think that you're first of all a man of science, Mr Scamander, and this is all that matters to me,' stopped him Harry. He had an idea why Scamander tried to dissociate himself from the role of a 'fighter against the system'; pity that he was too cautious to say anything imprudent... unless provoked. 'And, as a man of science, you clearly possess a certain, let's say, independence of thought. A laudable quality, don't you think?'

Scamander replied with a joyless smile, and his face grew gloomy. 'Well, an independence of thought may be quite praiseworthy, but too much independence could lead to isolation, and there is no good in that; no matter if you are a man of science or not.' He silenced.

Maybe, he was referring to his 'exile' here, to Azkaban, thought Harry. But then, the Experimental Charms had been moved here several years before the Cold Factory incident, so perhaps it was something other, of which he did not know yet.

'And in this case,' continued Scamander, 'my independence stood me in bad stead, because I had no power to make the others in the Committee… well, not to agree with me, but at least to listen to what I was trying to say.'

'Maybe they just weren't able to,' said Harry, recalling what Zabini had said about the other members of the Committee. 'The problem was too specific, you said so yourself; so maybe their knowledge was not enough –'

'And this is the point,' interrupted Scamander. 'We did not know enough to claim that we had found the true cause of the explosion. Our understanding of Liquid Time making was insufficient; we weren't familiar with the project itself well enough; we even had no idea what exactly had happened that night. There were those delays, as you are probably aware; but what was causing them? Dr Pumpernickel – that's the name of that German wizard - said that they were also the results of the same technological mistakes that caused the factory to blow up, but I seriously doubt that. Rosier himself believed that the delays had nothing to do -'

'So Rosier was aware of the delays?' asked Harry. He somehow thought that the problems began after his death. 'And what did _he_ say about them?'

Scamander winced. 'Well, nothing in particular. At first, he had a hypothesis that there might be something wrong with the Limiting Lattices – they are sort of filters on the reservoirs – and that we needed to check the blueprints once again, but he was not sure... And then, even though Rosier didn't think it was something urgent, he still advised the Ministry to stop the Factory for a few weeks. He was planning to upgrade the entire Extracting System during that time – I guess to realign terminal nodes of the network somehow – but then' – he faltered – 'but he… he has not completed the calculations for the new design.'

_Pity that he has not_, thought Harry. 'Rosier died here, at the Station?' he asked.

'Y-yes.' For some reason, this simple answer didn't come easily to Scamander, and Harry cast a quick glance upon him.

'I heard that it was an accident. An experiment went wrong?' he asked. If Scamander was telling the truth, Herbert Rosier had been working at the Liquid Time project up to his death, and in that case, to know the nature of his last experiments would be extremely important. Who knows, maybe in one of them, he had managed to repeat the conditions which caused the delays and ultimately led to Factory destruction. And perhaps, it was that finding that had cost him his life…

Unfortunately, Scamander's reply destroyed this promising theory.

'No,' he said shortly. 'It had nothing to do with his work. He died not in the laboratory, but outside… On the grounds.' And, answering Harry's inquiring glance, he explained: 'Some places here are very dangerous. I've said that already. He… he fell from a cliff.'

Fell from a cliff? Such a stupid death, thought Harry disappointedly. Normally a wizard would not have died from a simple fall from a cliff, but the cliffs here must be not usual ones. It's Azkaban, after all; the entire place was full of traps. So maybe the cliffs also were hexed or enchanted in some way. Or, maybe…

'And are you sure it was indeed an accident?' he asked, giving Scamander a very meaningful look.

Rolf's face became tensed at once. 'What do you mean?'

_And he is frightened_, thought Harry. Very interesting…

'Well,' he said, 'he might do it on purpose. Maybe he was depressed, or–'

'Absolutely impossible,' answered Scamander firmly. 'He was not the man who would do anything of the kind. My apologies, Mr Potter, but this is just nonsense.'

'Well, you certainly knew him better,' Harry easily agreed. 'Though it doesn't look as if you were close friends with him.'

'We weren't.'

'Pity,' said Harry almost sincerely. 'The man was somewhat lonely, I believe. By the way, it seems rather strange that he didn't even have an apprentice or somebody who would share his interests…' He silenced and looked at Scamander questioningly, anticipating that the latter would begin to object.

But Scamander did not fall for that trick, and his answer was absolutely calm. 'It is not something unusual in our circles,' he said. 'Sometimes your field of research is so specific that only a few people in the world could even understand what exactly you're doing, let alone share your devotion. I knew of Rosier's work well enough to finish the calculations for some of the upgrades he planned… those of which I was aware, that is... as far as I know, they were included in the project for the new Factory.'

Harry frowned: 'What do you mean, as far as you know? Wasn't this new project created by the Department of Mysteries?'

Scamander looked aside, and for several moments, remained silent. 'Interesting question, Mr Potter,' he said at last in a somewhat odd voice. '_Nominally_, it was.'

Now, that did not make any sense at all. However little Rosier's former colleagues knew about the details of his work, they were still those best informed.

'And you had nothing to do with it after that? Nothing at all? I find it hard to believe, Mr Scamander.'

'And nevertheless it's true,' said Rolf evenly.

Harry started to lose patience. 'You decided to switch your area of research rather abruptly,' he said.

'We already discussed that, Mr Potter.'

'And you can't be sure that this new Factory won't blow up like the old one.'

Scamander didn't say anything.

Harry shrugged. 'Well, perhaps studying those… fractal spaces or whatever, is more important than finding what exactly went wrong there. Or, maybe, you are waiting for another explosion – so that you'll have enough data to analyse?'

Scamander's eyes flashed; he stood up and straightened himself.

'I'm doing what I believe to be right, Mr Potter; so no need to worry about that. As to the Factory – you are quite wrong in assuming that I just signed the Committee resolution and forgot about that, as your other Ministry colleagues did.'

Harry hesitated for a moment, looking at Scamander's pale face. No need to enrage him further, he thought.

'Sorry, Mr Scamander,' he said reconcilably. 'I didn't mean to offend you. I just regret that –' He sighed. 'But I do understand that you may have a valid reason for your silence. Maybe, someday –'

But that half-apology did not seem to affect Scamander, who had already collected himself after his short outburst. 'My intentions are not a secret, Mr Potter,' he said with his usual calmness. 'I will do everything I can to stop the construction of the new Factory, whether the Ministry likes it or not. You may do anything you want with this knowledge... Now, if you excuse me, Mr Potter, I have a work to do.'

With these words, he turned around and left the room.

ooxXxoo

_Maybe, it wasn't such a good idea to angry Scamander that much_, thought Harry not without certain guilt, absentmindedly leafing through yet another boring report. It was clear that the man knew more than he was telling, but why to expect that he would spill the beans so easily? It was perhaps a good idea to press him a bit – but even in the end, when Harry almost insulted him, Scamander let out very little. _He must hate me now_, concluded Harry darkly, turning over a page.

Certainly he would not have spoiled the relationship from the very beginning, had he more time. Unfortunately, Scamander was not the man who would let his guard down so easily... No, there was no other way than to provoke him as he did; otherwise, he wouldn't have learned anything at all… Yes, in the end, it was a right thing to do; and as to his feeling of guilt –

Harry shook his head and forced himself to focus on the next report. 'Substance T field intensity: further results'. He had already deciphered that this mysterious 'Substance T' was the alias for Liquid Time. Unfortunately, his understanding had not reached farther than that: all Rosier's writings were full of formulae, graphs and blueprints completely beyond his comprehension. Harry didn't even know if there was something of interest at all.

Scamander's reports were hardly better; but, at least, the summaries there were readable, so Harry in most cases was able to understand what these papers were about. At last, he found the document which, seemingly, contained the calculations and the schematics for the upgrades Scamander had told him. For several hours, Harry thoroughly studied the schemes, trying to find some pattern in the web of intertwining colourful lines and obscure labels, but then had to give up: try as he might, it all remained as clear as mud.

Finally, he moved the blueprints aside and rose. These stupid symbols were dancing before his eyes, and his head began to ache again. At that moment, the entire plan with this inspection seemed to Harry a clear mistake. He sighed. Well, it's better to go out for a walk; a breath of fresh air would certainly clear his mind.

…Azkaban fortress was unlike any of the medieval castles Harry had seen. There were no outer walls, no defence towers, no central keep in the middle of the courtyard – instead, the entire building was a solid monolith. With its massive walls, rough and grey, the fortress seemed as if a continuation of the rock upon which it was built. Now, looking at it from outside, Harry thought that he wouldn't be surprised if it appeared that the entire construction had not been built at all, but rather been carved from this rock. The place might be really ancient, he thought; it must be much older than even Hogwarts… Who knows what had been here until it was turned to prison.

He was standing at the door which probably served as the 'main entrance', but which, despite this sound title, was almost decayed and squeaked unmercifully. Steep stairs led down from the tiny resting place, which was just wide enough for one man to stand safely. A weak railing at one side of the stairs didn't have the impression of being particularly safe, and Harry thought that it demanded a good skill to use that staircase without the risk of falling… Well, maybe poor Rosier just didn't have a knack for it, in the end. Harry looked around, wondering if that fateful cliff was here somewhere, and then noticed something else: a small, almost imperceptible path leading sideways, probably, to the other side of the island. He hesitated for a moment, but decided that he'd rather investigate the path on his way back: now, he wanted to go down to the sea.

The shore bore no signs of yesterday's storm; the narrow strip of sand was clear and empty. The sea had also changed: no longer frighteningly raging, it seemed just cold and unfriendly. Waves rolled on the beach, one after the other, and Harry just stared at them, resting his eyes on queer patterns formed by the sea-foam.

…So, Scamander objected the construction of a new Factory. Here he said the truth; Harry knew it. But why was he against it? Only because he was cautious and wanted to be sure that the new project was safe? Or, maybe, he had already found something that proved it _not _to be safe? Maybe, Rosier in fact did tell him what was causing the delays, but Scamander, for some reason, decided to conceal it?

Then, there was another discrepancy. Scamander said that Rosier recommended closing the Factory until these problems with the delays were resolved, but Harry didn't find any mentioning of this fact in the case. Of course, it was quite probable that Rosier's letters simply 'were taken' from the materials along with other _improper_ documents, because – how did Nott put it? – because of the references to certain Dark curses… But even if it were so, it still didn't explain why Scamander was acting so suspiciously. He clearly knew something about Rosier death, no doubt about that – but what was it? And then, his dislike for the Ministry… Could it be that it was somebody from the Ministry who had 'helped' Rosier to fall from the cliff, and Scamander just was afraid that the similar fate awaited him too if he spoke too much?

At the same time, Harry could not exclude the possibility that it all could be exactly the opposite. What if Rosier never said anything about the Factory and the danger associated with the project – maybe there was no danger at all – and Scamander just invented all that? Only, there was no reason to suggest why he would do such a thing. And even if such reason indeed existed, it could be anything; and maybe, it had nothing to do with the Factory at all. It might be something personal; who knows. This Herbert Rosier, it seemed, was not particularly the life and soul of the party, and Harry wouldn't be surprised to find out that he and Scamander hadn't been on good terms. Anyway, the cause for his death –

But here Harry's flow of thoughts was interrupted in the manner most unexpected: something heavy struck him in the neck rather painfully. He let out a short cry of astonishment and sharply turned around – only to find that the beach was absolutely empty. For several moments, he stood in place, unmoving, carefully eyeing the surroundings. He did not see anybody, and yet had that familiar feeling that he'd been watched. Then he looked down: a small round pebble lay at his feet, and that pebble definitely had not just fallen from sky.

Very slowly, Harry made several steps away from the water, keeping his eyes on the rocks that surrounded the beach – whoever had thrown the stone, he must be hiding there; he could almost felt his presence. But suddenly his glance fell on the sand, and Harry stood still.

Another pattern was laid there, made from the same roundish stones as the ones Harry had found under his door in the morning; only this time, the figure was more complicated. He carefully walked around, totally bewildered. There was something familiar about this pattern, and at the same time, something very wrong. One stone above, then three pairs under it, then two more below… Harry frowned. It was something so obvious, and yet, he could not understand what exactly. The tried to draw imaginary lines between the stones, connecting them in different ways, striving to unravel the hidden meaning. Nine stones in an irregular circle – what could it signify?

**O**

**O . . . . . O**

**O . . . . . O**

(…)

**O . . . . . O**

**O**

**O**

And why this figure seemed to him incomplete? Harry stared at the empty space in the centre, almost feeling the void inside, the flaw, the imperfection… He even made himself to believe that there was a small hole in the middle, as if something was taken from there; something that should be there, but was not. He kneeled down, examining the stones closely; he reach out his hand and passed it over the empty space in the middle, feeling that he had almost grasped a meaning of it all, that he needed just one more moment – and everything would become clear…

Engrossed in thoughts, Harry failed to notice that he was no more alone on the beach – until a soft rustle of sand behind his back made him jump to his feet and turn around.

A young girl in long white dress, embroidered with little colourful rabbits, stood just beside him, smiling.

Luna Lovegood! Harry's first impulse was to hug her, but he did not – as if somebody had stopped him – and just stared at her, feeling unusually uncomfortable.

'Hi, Luna!' he managed to say at last, wondered at his own awkwardness.

But Luna didn't seem to notice his confusion. To say the truth, she looked as if she wasn't surprised to meet him at all – despite they hadn't seen each other for almost ten years.

'And I was just walking here –' he mumbled. Damn, he wanted to see her for such a long time, and when he did, he couldn't produce a word. But everything was so sudden! The blow, the message, and then Luna… She looked so – …Harry silently cursed, embarrassed with himself: of course it was silly to expect that she would look just as she did ten years ago.

Luna laughed and adjusted the strand of her hair.

'No need to be shy, Harry. I know about them too; and I won't be interfering.'

Harry shifted one foot to the other and produced something like 'umm'. He had no idea of who were those mysterious 'them' that Luna mentioned.

'You know, they never talk to me,' continued Luna, her voice a bit sad. 'They must have really liked you.'

'You think so?' Harry cast down, not knowing what else to say. The feeling of awkwardness somehow became even stronger.

Luckily, Luna decided to switch topic. 'Did you arrive today?' she asked. 'They told me just an hour ago.'

'Yesterday, but I don't remember much of it...' He considered for a moment whether to tell her about his 'magnificent' flight through the storm, but then decided against it. Her friends at the station must have already told her about it. 'I wanted to meet you earlier, but you weren't there.'

'I must have been outside. I go for a walk sometimes… This is very beautiful place, don't you think, Harry?'

Harry hesitated. Somehow his idea of a 'beautiful place' was slightly different. 'I don't know,' he said at last. 'From what I've heard, this place is full of traps.' He recalled how much Scamander was frightened when Caph told him about Luna's absence.

'But they are no traps,' said Luna with a slight offence. 'They are just… challenges. They are just testing you – your body, your mind, your spirit… Your soul,' she ended quietly.

The last word sounded so strange that it gave him shivers.

'You have quite a unique perspective of the life here,' he said at last.

'But haven't you too, Harry?' She gave him an inquiring look. 'I think that you have. Otherwise, you wouldn't come here. You wouldn't listen to the sea, wouldn't play with the Surge, and the Sandslithers wouldn't have talked to you, either...'

'Sandslithers?' repeated Harry in bewilderment. Could they be the mysterious 'them' Luna had been referring earlier? 'What are these Sandslithers?

'You must be joking, Harry. Of course you know who they are!' And Luna pointed to the pebbles. 'How else could you talk with them?'

Harry narrowed his eyes. 'You mean it's them who left here these stones? The Sandslithers?'

'But of course! It seems they really like you, Harry. They don't communicate to just anyone, you know.'

'I somehow didn't perceive this as a conversation,' he muttered. Luna's beliefs might be crazy, but over the time they knew each other, he had learned that quite often, there was a grain of truth behind that craziness. 'Could you tell me about these Sandslithers, Luna? They are some animated beings, right?'

'They are the spirits born out of the Quicksands. You know, when you keep enchanting something for too long, it becomes animated. The magic makes it alive. Sometimes, even a single spell is enough, if it was cast with all your heart… And sometimes, if you put a real passion into making, you need not any spell at all… You know, it's like magical portraits. Have you ever thought how much alive they really are?'

'So you mean there is something that was born from all these ancient spells?' he interrupted. 'Something alive?'

'Of course, they are alive! It's a very old place, Harry, and magic had been filling it for many ages. They all are alive. The Surge, the Quicksands. And the ether snakes up there. And the water-nettles that grow in the rain ring above the sea. Even the castle itself is alive; and sometimes I hear its whispers. But I cannot listen to them for too long; they are so sad… But the Sandslithers are not sad. They are very curious. You know, they are no more the part of the Quicksands and slither freely, looking for somebody to play with them…'

Well, just as good a theory as anything of mine, thought Harry philosophically and then asked:

'And did they play with you before? Those… creatures?'

Luna looked at him apologetically. 'No, I'm afraid not. Maybe they didn't like me. They could be capricious, you know. Or maybe they thought I wouldn't understand them. They are snakes, after all, and not anyone can talk to snakes, Harry.'

'I cannot talk to snakes either, Luna,' said Harry with a forced smile. 'Not anymore. You know this.'

'It seems you still can.' And Luna came closer and bent over the stone pattern, examining the pebbles.

He watched as Luna studied the stone pattern with an expression of the most serious curiosity on her face, and noted absently how the setting sun coloured her silver hair to a very tender shade of pink. It was really strange, he thought, that she was so different now from the girl he remembered – and yet, she hadn't changed at all… He recalled how surprised he was when he learned that Luna was working in Azkaban. But perhaps, it was a right decision for her? To find a place that was as crazy as her ideas and as wild as her imagination?

Still, it did not explain why he was feeling so _strange_ since the first moment he met her.

'You know, I didn't get it,' said Harry at last, feeling completely lost.

Luna straightened up and looked at him, and the compassion and even pity in her eyes almost struck him down, so unlike they were to her usual serene expression.

'Oh, Harry - you must be really in pain,' she said quietly, moving closer. 'Why haven't you told me?'

'I haven't told you what?' he asked, taken aback by this sudden change in Luna's attitude.

Instead of an answer, she stretched her hand, softly touching his breast just at the level of the heart.

'There,' she said. 'Everything is not as it should be.'

Her touch felt unusually soft, and for some reason Harry felt dizzy.

'Why do you think so?' he asked in a suddenly hoarse voice.

'Because you are missing something; something so important that everything is falling apart without it; something that is a heart of it all… That's what they are trying to tell you, Harry.'

A heart? Harry turned to the message again. A rational part of his mind was saying that it was all just plain nonsense, and that there were no Sandslithers, let alone the ones playing games with him, and that there was no reason to play such games at all. Yet still… Something inside him was saying that those figures were not just a mere prank. What if somebody here was really trying to communicate with him? To tell him something important? Or to warn him, maybe? Ah, if he could only decipher what this all meant…

'A heart,' he mumbled, still deep in thoughts. 'What does it mean – a heart is missing? A heart of what?'

And in that moment, he understood why this pattern seemed so familiar. Of course! He must have been really slow-witted if he missed such an obvious thing. Those nine stones were the nine nodes - Sephiroth - that formed the Tree of Life, and the missing stone corresponded to the central Sephirah, Tipheret – perhaps, that's why Luna was saying about 'the heart of it all'. The Tree of Life was a mythical concept of great importance, mentioned in every serious book on magic theory, and Harry wondered how he could fail to recognize it.

But what could this tree possibly symbolize? His own life? His investigation? Harry smiled sadly: In both of them, he was definitely missing something vital.

'I think I can fix it,' he let out, rather answering to his own thoughts than to Luna's words. He would find the answer, eventually, and everything would be well again. His eyes focused on the empty space in the middle. Yes, to fix it. To turn it back. To undo the harm that had been done… At that moment, words of Ollivander emerged in his memory: "You are trying to fix what was broken, but there are the things that cannot be undone…"

'We'll see,' he murmured.

He absently slapped his pockets and looked around in search of another stone, but there was no one nearby. Instead, he fumbled something in the pocket of his windbreaker and drew it out – it was the Hogwarts snow-globe, of which he had completely forgotten. Without a moment's thought, he put the glass ball on the empty space where the pebble should have been. Yes, that's exactly what was needed, and now the figure was complete. He stepped back and looked at the result.

Was it the answer his mysterious correspondent had required from him? Perhaps, he would get another sign? He stood and waited, not sure of what. But nothing had changed as he completed the figure. Not a new sound in the air, except of the quiet rustling of wind, and the waves were rolling on the shore with the same calm laziness.

'Such a beautiful thing!' whispered Luna, moving closer to see the snow-globe. 'I could not have thought of a better reply!'

Harry would have liked to say that he still was not quite sure what the question was, but restrained himself from any comment. His hopes that the stone-lover would reveal himself had faded away. Harry sighed: it was quite stupid of him, to expect something of the kind…

Luna touched his hand, and he gave a start.

'May I see it?'

'What? Ah, of course you can,' he said, bowing to take the globe back. 'Here, look –'

But it seemed that it was a wrong thing to do: just as Harry had taken a snow-globe from its place, a sudden gust of wind threw a cloud of sand in his face, and he began coughing and frantically rubbed his eyes.

'Oh, Harry, are you all right?'

'Y-yes,' he said, clearing the sand from his running eyes and making an attempt to smile. 'A windy place is there, isn't it?'

Here he noticed that he was not the only victim of the wind: Luna's mantle was gone, and now she was trembling with cold, shyly looking at him.

'I think I've spoiled everything,' she said guiltily. 'I shouldn't have asked… And now you will never know what they were trying to say you… I'm so sorry, Harry.'

'Nonsense. It didn't mean anything; all those stones… Just somebody's stupid joke. Here, take this,' he said resolutely, taking off his windbreaker and hanging it to her. 'You must be freezing.'

'No, Harry, leave it –' she began to protest. But he didn't listen and move closer, trying to help her to put the windbreaker on.

He was still adjusting the collar (his hands were trembling so it took him a while), when an unexpectedly loud voice made them turn around.

'Ah, here you are.'

Rolf Scamander was standing just a few feet from them, at the one of the last footsteps of the stone staircase. He was breathing heavily, as if he had to run all his way down. Scamander was looking at Harry's hands, which were still around Luna's neck, with a very strange expression on his face; and when Harry understood what Rolf must be possibly thinking, he felt even more awful then before.

But, whatever Scamander's feelings might be, he succeeded in hiding them.

'Mr Potter, Luna… We've started to worry about you. You missed the dinner.' He paused and, clearly forcing himself, looked straight at Harry. The silent reproach in Scamander's eyes was so eloquent that Harry almost wished the earth would swallow him up. However, he met that glance without a flinch, so Scamander was the first to cast down.

'I advise you to return inside at once,' he said tonelessly. 'Another storm is coming; Claudius has seen the signs.' He added nothing more, just turned around and started to walk up the stairs.

Harry and Luna followed him in silence.

* * *

_Thank you for reading!_

_Next chapter_: Harry is faced with new secrets ... and feels the power of might-have-been.


	16. Might Have Been

_AN_: Hello everyone! I know that it's been quite a while, and I'm terribly sorry for my disappearance. However, these days my RL is moderately calm, and so I hope to upload at least Ch. 16 – 19 (that is, till the end of Part I) in the foreseeable future, as they are almost done. My apologies for the change of style: apparently, it was unavoidable after such a break; and please, be tolerant to my mistakes – even after I spent more than a year in the UK, my English still leaves much to be desired.

My huge thanks to all who still read this and especially to my friend Star Mirage – for her so polite and yet persistent nudging

_This Chapter_: The secrets of Azkaban's inhabitants are not easy to uncover – and so Harry has to endure yet more seemingly pointless conversations, some of which were not even destined for his ears.

**Chapter 16. "Might Have Been"**

Harry was lying in his bed, sleepless, and listened to the groan of the wind outside the castle walls. He was unusually tired – it was the worst kind of tiredness, not that of the body, but of the mind – and felt completely worn out.

His investigation was clearly getting out of hand. Strange thing, indeed – the more he tried, the further he seemed to be from his goal. As in the worst of his nightmares, the solution, which appeared so close at first, was gradually moving away from him, as more and more obstacles were emerging on his way. And, above all, a new feeling was forming inside his mind – a feeling that he was losing something, something very important, something vital to him – and losing it irreversibly, forever.

What if old Ollivander was right? What if there was nothing wrong with that Factory, if an accident was imminent – if the very essence of their world _demanded _it to happen? A too familiar vision emerged in his mind: cold darkness, surrounding him, suffocating him, pressing him to non-existence; and he felt helpless and small, crushed by its weight, desperate from its inevitability.

It took him some effort to drive away this gloomy picture. The mystery was there, true; but there was nothing mystical about it – let alone irreversible - and all he needed was to clear his mind and set his thoughts in order.

He had plenty of things to think about by now.

Strange stone patterns, to start with. Whoever left them for him must have known quite a lot about what was going on, and it also was inexplicable, because neither ghost nor Inferi, as Caph suggested, nor Luna's Sandslithers, even if they existed, could possibly be so well informed. No, there must be some other explanation. Perhaps, late Rosier and his co-workers were not the only ones who knew about the project, perhaps there was another party involved – and, perhaps, Scamander was trying to conceal precisely that?

Indeed, Rolf's desire to distance himself from anything associated with Rosier and his work at the Cold Factory's project was too overdone for it to be completely sincere. After all, the man who put so much effort into creating all these schemes and improvements couldn't be as ignorant about the project as he tried to seem. And Harry recalled the intertwining of thousands colourful lines in those blueprints, almost chaotic in their complexity – certainly, the knowledge of any person who could have created such plans should be anything but merely superficial… Yes, Rolf knew much more than he chose to let out, and it was imperative for Harry to find out what exactly; perhaps, the meeting with Dr Caph, scheduled for tomorrow, would help. And then, there was Luna, and he had no idea at all what part she had been playing in this…

Harry closed his eyes, trying to get some sleep at last, but the thin lines of the factory schematics did not vanish. For some reason, they became even brighter, almost glowing in darkness, as if trying to burn out his mind from the inside. And a strange thing it was: where there had been a chaos without any system, he suddenly saw something else – just as a man who looks at the sky through the bare branches of a winter tree, sees not an accidental pattern of brushwood, but a mysterious sign as if sent to him from on high. All of a sudden, the thin lines of dried ink somehow turned to the contour of a tree, the very Tree of Life that he saw earlier lain out from the pebbles on the chilly Azkaban beach.

It happened so unexpectedly that Harry gave a start and opened his eyes. His tiredness and sleepy mood vanished at once. Could it be that the core principle of the liquid time manufacturing was indeed based on the concept of the Tree of Life?

He sat up on his bed, staring into darkness and trying to call to his mind the outlines he had seen today. Unfortunately, his memory, usually obedient to him, stepped back, giving place to his imagination: the blueprints appeared before his inner eye as if through a mist: they were twisting and shifting their form; their lines, thin and straight, bended and curved in some fantastical manner, like snakes – or, rather, like branches of some enormous tree – the very tree he was trying to find…

'No, this won't do', said Harry to himself at last, after several minutes of unsuccessful attempts to tame his way too vivid imagination. It was clear that he wouldn't be able to sleep until he checked the blueprints once again. He looked at the table watch: it was almost three o'clock in the morning. All other castle inhabitants must have been dead asleep. For some reason, he thought about Luna: yes, she must be sleeping too… He sighed and roused himself. There was no point in waiting till morning – he might as well go to Scamander's laboratory right away.

He got up and quickly dressed, then cautiously opened the door and stepped outside. The passage was dark and quiet, as it should be in that late hour. Azkaban ghosts – if there were any – must have been haunting some other part of the fortress tonight. Well, so much the better.

With that thought, Harry headed for the laboratories.

oxXxo

Just as Harry hoped, the door had not been locked – it seemed that Scamander was not afraid that someone would covet for his precious fractal crystals or indecipherable reports. 'And quite wrongly', thought Harry, not without a hint of vengeance, as he opened the safe with the records. This sudden outburst of malicious joy even surprised him, because he rather liked Scamander, even though the man had refused to help him. Harry sighed: unfortunately, this feeling was hardly mutual. And if in the beginning Harry could have hoped that he could change Rolf's attitude, he understood that it was almost impossible by now, especially after this incident on the beach. Damn, Scamander definitely had thought that he and Luna… Here Harry felt that his thoughts were about to slip into quite a dangerous territory, so he made himself focus on the reports.

To his embarrassment, the pattern he remembered so clearly appeared not so easy to spot. There were several dozens of the blueprints – each corresponded to a particular version of the project – and so far, none of them seemed to provide him with the evidence he looked for. Harry leafed through the pages, thoroughly studying each picture and screwing up his eyes in the dim light from his wand - but in vain.

He was looking through the last tome, having almost accepted his defeat, when he suddenly stumbled upon the small sheet of paper – a scrap with uneven edges, probably torn from somewhere else – and his heart fluttered with joy as he recognized the familiar outline. At last! Harry checked the dates on the records in this file and noted that they corresponded to the week before Rosier death. To all appearances, those must be his latest writings. To Harry, this seemed especially interesting, for he could bet that the crumpled piece of paper was much older.

He smoothed it out and made the light brighter, trying to decipher the neat lines of Rosier's handwriting – and here he made another discovery: it appeared that under his notes, there was another text, almost completely erased but still visible. 'Better and better', mumbled Harry under his nose and bended closer to the suspicious paper. 'Let's see what we have here…'

He was about to cast the Reversing Spell when the sudden noise, coming from the hallway, made him freeze at place. It looked like several people were heading to the Laboratory – Harry clearly discerned the sound of steps and distant muffled voices.

There was no time for hesitation. Harry quickly shuffled the old records back into the safe and jumped to the door. There was a good chance that he still could have left unnoticed, had he moved out right away, but he wasn't completely sure in that – and besides, he was rather curious to know who those other night visitors were. Ah, if only he had his Invisibility Cloak with him! He quickly studied the room. As ill luck would have it, there were no wall niches or spacious wardrobes or anything like that in Scamander's study. The only large piece of furniture was the heavy oak desk, heaped with files and papers… The decision was fast: Harry jumped to the desk and climbed under it, trying not to think what would happen if he were discovered.

Several moments after, two people entered the study. To his surprise, Harry, who managed to find a chink between the wood panels, recognized in them none other than Dr Caph and the owner of the study himself, Rolf Scamander.

'Listen, Rolf, there's absolutely no need in this. I am sure that Dusty would help us even without this… incentive.'

There was a sound of a cabinet door opening, followed by a quiet jingle of glass.

'I don't understand why you're so obstinate,' Caph said again. 'We used to live without the Ether Control System for half a month before, perhaps even more, and nothing terrible happened. The stars are favourable, so the increase in Dementors' quantity won't be significant – I've checked it, made the calculations trice…'

The jingle of glass gave place to the sound of pouring liquid. Harry remembered that he saw several large retorts in one of the cabinets – some chemicals, most probably. But why would Scamander need them so urgently, in the middle of the night?

'It is not the Dementors that I worry about most, Claudius,' came Scamander's answer at last. 'Two years ago, we could have lived without the Ether Controls even for a month, I'd say. But now… I doubt that we'd held out even for a couple of days. We can't afford the risk, Claudius. I don't know what is on his mind, but he's very persistent. I'd say, he's up to something, don't you think?'

Caph sniffed. 'Hmm, I somehow don't believe he has this intention… What evidence do you have - only those strange stone piles? In any case, it seems Mr Potter has believed that they were no more than somebody's stupid prank.'

'I wish you were right,' mumbled Scamander so quietly that Caph had probably missed this reply. Harry, however, had not.

'Anyway, you seem to worry about this inspection way too much, Rolf. But it's just the routine check; we both know it. A mere formality – though a rather onerous one.' Caph sighed. 'You know, I sometimes even pity those poor Aurors, who have to study all our papers and pretend that they understand at least something in them. And, with all my respect, I doubt that Mr Potter has enough academic preparation to do any better than his other colleagues.'

'Believe me, Claudius, he's anything but a fool,' said Scamander darkly. 'Perhaps you are right and he's just like any other of them. However, I have the impression that he knows much more than he chooses to show. And he is quite skilful in extracting the information he doesn't yet have, I'd say… So be careful tomorrow.'

Harry could almost sense Scamander's bitterness and hidden anger. Perhaps, Caph had felt something too, for he looked at his colleague worryingly and asked:

'But… but you don't think that he might somehow have guessed – ?'

'"Guessed" is too careful a word in our situation, I'm afraid. He definitely knows something, that's why he came here in first place. And that's why I can't afford any risk right now.'

'But that's impossible! How could anyone get to know? No, no, Rolf; you just can't be right!'

'Please, calm down, Claudius!' Scamander admonishingly put a hand on Caph's shoulder. 'Think for yourself. What for would the Ministry send their best Auror – and not just anybody, but Harry Potter in person - with a simple routine inspection, unless they have already suspected something?'

Caph fidgeted awkwardly.

'But then… don't you think it might be better if we just tell him ourselves?' he suggested at last.

'No,' Scamander cut him short. 'It will only make things worse. You remember what those Ministry officials are like. Believe me, today the situation is even worse than back in your time,' he ended gloomily.

For several moments, they both remained silent. Then Caph gave a start.

'Wait, Rolf – what are you doing? It's four times a normal dose - and almost half of our reserve! Not to mention we are forbidden to let Dusty even near such a thing!'

Scamander lifted up a flask he held in his hand and studied it cautiously. As far as Harry could discern, the liquid inside was black as ink.

'I know. But I want it to end tomorrow night – or the day after tomorrow at worst. So I have to be sure that he has enough strength for the task… So come on, Claudius. We are already late.'

He carefully closed the cabinet, checked the lock and headed for the exit. Caph, however, still hesitated.

'Ah, Rolf, but what if we get caught? Or, even worse – what if Dusty will lose control completely, after such a dose? I understand your worries, my friend – but is all this truly necessary? There can't be too many of them, anyway.'

Scamander, who was already at the door, turned back, his face unusually pale in the cold moonlight. But there was no hesitation on it, nor nervousness – only a dark resolve.

'You don't understand, Claudius,' he said calmly. 'I do not want Dusty to suppress the number of Dementors. I need him to do _exactly the opposite_.'

Caph's face became distorted with horror. 'What?'

'Don't worry; I've not gone mad… I'll explain you everything on the way there. Now, let's go.'

Too bewildered to protest further, Caph obeyed, and both wizards left the room and disappeared in the darkness of the hallway.

Harry cautiously listened as their steps faded into distance, and only then emerged from under his cover. To say that he was surprised would be clearly an understatement.

oxXxo

The next morning, when Harry came down for breakfast, Scamander looked as if nothing had happened: phlegmatically calm and unruffled, he was finishing drinking his coffee, while leafing though some tattered scientific magazine. Harry curtly nodded to him and to the two trainees who were also here (and, as Harry noted, enjoyed their time buttering toasts with unthinkable amount of chocolate butter). Both Luna and Caph were absent.

'I see you're an early bird, Mr Scamander,' said Harry, sitting down just across Rolf. 'Your colleagues didn't come down yet, I take it?'

'Ms Lovegood has already left. She usually gets up very early. But you're right about Dr Caph: he had to work overnight because of the storm, so I doubt that he will come out before noon.'

'Pity,' said Harry almost indifferently and stretched for the plate with doughnuts. 'I was planning to speak with him after breakfast. But of course I won't disturb him now… Perhaps, I'll interview somebody else.' With these words, he threw as if an accidental glance at the trainees, who immediately began to fidget nervously and then hastily departed, not even finishing their delicious toasts.

Scamander put down his magazine and carefully observed their rushed leave – and Harry was surprised to see a hint of amusement in his usually serious eyes.

'Those two don't look to me as the future pillars of magical science,' commented Harry when he and Rolf remained alone.

'Fortunately for magical science,' murmured Scamander. 'But, to their excuse, I ought to say that they didn't have this ambition… They are from the Law Enforcement; they just need to have some practical work in another Department under the new rotational procedure.'

'Yes, I heard something about this,' said Harry, recollecting Nott's words about "strengthening the inter-department relationship". 'And where are your own trainees? At Law Enforcement? Or at Centaur Liaisons, by chance?'

Scamander sighed. 'The truth is that we don't have any trainees of our own at the moment… Not a single one since we were reformed.'

Well, at this point in his investigation, the reasons for that where quite understandable to Harry. 'I see,' he said laconically, not disposed to venture further into discussing the decline and fall in the magic arts. 'So much the better… By the way, is the fog always so thick here?'

Scamander, slightly abashed with the sudden shift in the conversation, replied only several moments after: 'Y-yes; during this time of the year.'

'And what about the day Rosier died? Was it like this one?'

Scamander shrugged. 'I don't really remember. Perhaps it was,' he said evasively. 'Anyway, I'm afraid I can't see how it matters now, Mr Potter.'

_Aha, can't you… _'It just came to my mind that Dementors should particularly like this kind of weather,' Harry said as if absently, staring into the opalescent mantle outside the window. 'Aren't you afraid, Mr Scamander?' he added, abruptly changing the tone and turning back sharply to face Rolf.

If Scamander was taken aback with this question, his steady gaze did not betray him.

'I can assure you, Mr Potter, we certainly have all necessary means to keep them at bay. The weather doesn't present a serious complication for our… protection mechanisms.'

'Ah.' Harry nodded. 'The new Gorge protection system. _Of course._'

The Great Gorge, the infamous Azkaban's Dementors birth place, could hardly be counted among the island's most frequently visited sights. Yet, it was the most important of them all, and the reason why the fortress was built here in the first place. No one exactly knew what was going on down there, in its lightless depths. No one, to think of it, ever really tried to found – and Harry perfectly understood why. From the documentations he had studied prior to travelling here, it was evident that the Prison and the Gorge used to be in some sort of weird equilibrium, the number and the activity of Dementors adjusting to those of misfortunate fortress inhabitants.

It was believed that the Ministry controlled the entire Dementor population, but in fact it was very far from the truth: only several dozens of those creatures at the upper levels of the Great Gorge cave system could be made obedient. To a certain extent. When the decision to close Azkaban prison finally came, five years ago, the old ways of keeping the Dementor numbers down had to become obsolete, and the completely new system of protection was installed.

'I have to visit the Gorge, you know,' said Harry, quietly observing Rolf's reaction. 'It's a part of the Inspection.'

Scamander merely nodded. 'Not in this weather, I suppose.'

'You said that the weather can hardly interfere with the defences,' noted Harry pointedly.

'That is correct, but it could make your experience there rather… unpleasant.'

'Just _a trifle_ more unpleasant than it would have been otherwise,' Harry couldn't help saying.

After this remark, Scamander's face became not just calm, but unnaturally dispassionate. A subtle twist, but it didn't miss Harry's attention.

'I can't forbid you to go there today, Mr Potter,' he said evenly. 'I would not advise it, though. The path is not very safe; and in this fog… it would be quite _unwise_.'

Was it a menace, in the way that Rolf slightly emphasized the last word?

'Are you implying that accidents are so common there?'

As he said this, something in Scamander's eyes changed imperceptibly – just for a brief moment a thought flashed and gone – and Harry was stricken with sudden realization.

'Well,' he began slowly, 'It's just as I thought. But I was going to see the place where this incident with Rosier happened anyways… How far is it from the Gorge?'

Scamander bit his lips. 'Just within the outer terrace,' he said reluctantly. 'But there is nothing to be seen now. We removed all unstable stones and installed additional railings.'

'Ah, good. It will be easy to spot, then.'

Scamander said nothing. After a short silence, Harry got up.

'Well, thank you, Mr Scamander,' he said with a dry smile. 'I think I'll be back for lunch.'

Scamander just bowed his head silently. Harry gave him one last look – for a moment, it seemed as if Rolf was going to add something, but he didn't – and then took his leave.

oxXxo

This mournful day was painted with only black and white, but for some strange reason did not seem ugly in its colourlessness. On the contrary, the subtle richness of its shades made the scenery inaccessibly perfect – though in quite a weird sense.

Unfortunately, Harry had neither time nor possibility to admire its muted hues: as he stepped on the path leading to the Gorge, he became extremely busy with much more prosaic things.

Scamander was not lying about the possible dangers that might have awaited some careless – and even not-so-careless – traveller on the way to the Gorge. The stony path was rough and uneven, and Harry could see no farther than two steps ahead in the tight fog. This fog had another unpleasantness, making the trail very slippery, so that several times, Harry almost fell.

There's nothing suspicious about this supposed accident with Rosier, after all, he thought grimly, hardly avoiding yet another fall. If only the man had decided to have a walk on a day like this one… The question is, why would he want to do such a thing? Why would anyone want to go there, in weather like this? And why was Scamander so reluctant to tell anything about it?

He imagined Rosier – a tall, clumsy figure, hurrying down the narrow path and awkwardly waving his hands for balance. Concentration lost for a split second, a misstep, a short scream – and a long flight down… no, probably, even not that long: sharp edges of black Azkaban cliffs must have certainly done their job pretty soon… Harry shivered: a nasty picture it was. A poor man must have been disfigured beyond recognition before his body even hit the ground.

This flight of imagination was interrupted by another near-fall, and Harry forced himself to pay attention to the path. He couldn't be too far from that place Scamander mentioned: he already reached the first terrace; those new railings must be somewhere nearby… He raised his head, trying to figure out where they are – and then stopped in surprise.

The fog ended abruptly, as if cut by a sharp knife, and the rocks ahead of him were dry and clean. A small figure in the familiar green windbreaker stood in the clear space ahead, dangerously close to the edge of the rift, and, to all appearances, unaware of his approaching.

Harry crossed the distance that parted them in several hurried steps.

'Hi, Luna,' he breathed out. 'What are you doing here?'

She turned to him and smiled a bit guiltily.

'Oh, hi Harry. It's so nice of you to come here for me. Did… did Rolf send you?'

'Um, not exactly,' said Harry carefully. Poor Scamander would have probably had a heart attack if he'd found out that Luna went to this place again. And now Harry wouldn't have blamed him for being so over-protective. 'But he wouldn't like you to be here all by yourself. It's very dangerous, and especially in this weather.'

'But you are here,' pointed Luna thoughtfully after a pause.

'Can't say that I'm enjoying my time, though.' Then he raised his eyes at her and quickly corrected himself: 'That is, I wasn't till I met you... I'm on my way to the Gorge, by the way. Is it still far?'

'Not far at all, Harry. We are already at the edge of the perimeter. This is where the fog ends.'

'Good. And what is this place, exactly?'

'This is the spring of Might Have Been,' said Luna matter-of-factly. 'I like the way it rings.'

Needless to say, in the entire description of Azkaban facility and its protection system there was no mentioning of anything with such a name.

'The spring of Might Have Been?' he repeated with doubt. 'I don't exactly see anything like a spring here.'

'Of course, you can't see it.' She nodded as if it went without saying. 'There only might have been a spring. But you can hear it, if you listen closely. Here, put your hand over the rift,' – and she took Harry's hand – 'They call you. Do you feel it?'

'Umm… And what exactly is there to feel?'

'The Not-Come-True, of course! The possibilities never realized; the choices that you never made; the plans held till forever... They don't disappear. They are always there, waiting; hoping for the chance to become real.'

They stood on the very edge of the cliff, not moving, in absolute silence. A soft pressure of the air rising from the darkness tickled his fingers. Harry closed his eyes and concentrated. But, no matter how hard he tried, the only thing he could perceive was Luna's quiet breathing and the beating of his own heart.

'I don't hear anything,' he said at last, not able to withstand the strange weakness that crept over him all of a sudden.

'That's because you aren't really listening. But there's nothing wrong with it. Most people don't.'

She took off her hand, and Harry suddenly felt very lonely.

'It's cold there,' he said, trying to make himself sound with the usual friendly confidence.

As always, Luna's presence somehow made him feel unusually awkward. That's because she was the type of person one never know how to be with, he thought; but then immediately corrected himself: no, not because of it. How strange, indeed: all those who talked to Luna, even the ones she considered her friends, always to some extent believed that they were condescending to her; and Harry knew he was no exception.

Then why this unexplainable feeling of guilt? A proof of his own less-than-generousness?

He made himself to face her, and his inquiring look was met with Luna's friendly-as-ever undisturbed gaze.

'Ah, it seems that you feel it too, Harry!' said Luna and smiled.

All he could have said to her would have shattered against this impenetrable barrier of calmness, dreaminess and unreal amicability. _Her defence is as good as mine_, he thought: it would stand because no one would bother to look beyond it...

'You know, when you fall in love with someone at last, everything will change, Luna,' he blurted out suddenly, and immediately became frightened with what he had just said.

But, as he could have predicted, he was the only one confused.

'Thank you, Harry!' beamed Luna. 'This is very kind of you to say.'

He shook his head with a short frustrated laugh: off all girls he knew, only she could react like that.

'Well, never mind,' he said at last.

For a minute, they stood in silence, watching the pearly fog lazily curling in the rift below. Harry passed his hand over his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts.

'Did Rosier come here often too?' he asked. 'This is where he died, right?'

Nothing changed in Luna's serene face, only her eyes somewhat darkened. 'I don't think he liked this place,' she said at last. 'He was a man of 'was' and 'will', one of those who always know what is right, and who always do the right thing. He had no doubts, and no regrets. To such people, the might-have-beens have nothing to say.'

Harry thought that he could easily imagine that sort of a man, quite certain of himself and straightforward to the degree of arrogance; probably, this is why Scamander dismissed the possibility of a suicide that easily. If such a man ever made a mistake, he would simply correct it, or admit his failure; but would never just sit and lament over the chances he lost and torture his consciousness with endless 'what-ifs'.

'Do you happen to know anything about his research on Liquid Time, by chance?

Luna smiled. 'He did not research the Liquid Time, Harry. He was just inventing the ways to use it. You know, in the end, this is what made all the difference.'

To Harry, it did not sound all that clear. 'What difference?' he inquired. 'You mean what happened with the Factory? Or that he died so... unexpectedly?'

'_All_ the difference, Harry,' said Luna, still staring dreamily at the whirling mist below. 'The questions they asked and the answers they found. Their heart desire and the substance of their dreams. And, of course, where they stood in the end... You know, I remember my mother saying that Rosier would give his life for the perfect future, while Dumbledore and Meadowes would give theirs for the perfect past.'

That was quite interesting, even if more than a bit obscure. What was Luna's mother implying with such a strange contrasting of her former co-workers? Giving his life for the perfect past... Harry knew Dumbledore well enough to admit that such a characteristic was not without a certain truth to it. And as for Meadowes –

'And what about their work on the Liquid Time Factory project?' he asked. 'Did they ever argue? Perhaps, your mother mentioned anything about it?'

But Luna shook her head. 'I'm afraid she did not speak much of it with us. But Rosier started to work on the project only after Voldemort's first demise. My mother was not a part of his group by then; she was studying the connection with parallel spaces.' She lowered her voice and added softly: 'The portals like this one here.'

Now, could this be an explanation of why Luna was attracted to the Rift so much? For the sake of her mother's memory? Dangerous infatuation, if so; to Harry's opinion, most of the so-called portals to the other spaces – such as the infamous Veil in the Department of Mysteries - were pretty much one-way only.

'Did she spoke about her research with you at all?' he asked.

'No, Harry. We mostly talked about other things,' and then she gave him yet another of her out-of-there glances and smiled. 'About you, too. You know, my mother used to tell me stories when I went to sleep, and the one about you and the Dark Lord was my favourite.'

He looked at her perplexedly, not sure what to make of her reply.

'Perhaps, you are the part of my might-have-been, Harry,' she continued with the same disarming earnestness. 'I even think that I used to have a crush on you.'

'Umm,' the only thing he could utter, suddenly feeling very hot.

'I always wanted to meet you,' Luna went on dreamily, 'and when we would come to a muggle town, I looked for you on every street. But then I understood that the tales are not real, and I began to think that you didn't exist. Funny, isn't it? Just as funny as those people who believe that Crumple-Horned Snorkack doesn't exist. And then one day I met you.' She smiled. 'It was at Flourish & Blotts, when we were buying my Hogwarts supplies. But there were too many people there, because that wizard, Gilderoy Lockhart, was signing the books, and I –'

Harry remembered that day very well, even though so many years had passed. He smiled at Lockhart's name – who knows what became of him now? – and the other memories of the day passed through his mind: his first unsuccessful attempt to use the Floo Powder that landed him in Borgin & Burke, his friends, Ginny…

'– I tried to get to you, but my father was busy speaking with Mr Malfoy; because Mr Malfoy agreed to give an interview about the conspiracy within the Ministry, and then it was too late…'

Lucius Malfoy, giving interview for 'Quibbler'? What a surprise. Maybe Draco's obsession with the press was hereditary, after all.

'…so when I came back to return to Mr Malfoy his notebook with the secret evidence, you were already with that Lockhart, taking pictures –'

'Lucius Malfoy's notebook?' Harry gave a start, as if the smooth flow of Luna's tale suddenly collided with a reef. 'What notebook?'

'Oh, I think it was very important, though it looked just as plain empty notebook. He accidentally dropped it into my cauldron. Father said that probably Mr Malfoy wrote his secret observations on the Minister there, and enchanted it so that no one would read it. It might be very dangerous for him, you see, if someone would find his notes. It was very tempting for my father, to learn all those secrets, but it might have put Mr Malfoy in a quite compromising position, so he asked me to return it and tell Mr Malfoy that no one would know about that little secret of his and that he need not be afraid… And Mr Malfoy looked very frightened when I said it all to him; so I believe the father was right about the book… What's happened, Harry?'

Who might have known, after all these years – to learn that Lucius Malfoy was intending to give Riddle's diary to _Luna Lovegood _in the first place?

Though why not… Harry looked at Luna again, trying to see her just as Malfoy did that day sixteen years ago. And he saw a weird, lonely, not-quite-in-her-mind eleven-year old girl, who must be probably still missing her mother… and who would hardly find friends at Hogwarts, a freak she was… No matter what his opinion of Lucius Malfoy was, Harry had to confess that the old slimeball was right in his suggestions – it just _might have_ worked perfectly. _Oh yes,_ _so much better than with Ginny._

That thought made him shiver.

And then another realization came to his mind, a realization much more bitter: he imagined a certain second-year Harry Potter, hearing the news that someone was taken into the Chamber of Secrets… Would that twelve-year old boy go down there for some Ravenclaw girl he didn't know just as bravely as he did for his best friend's sister?

He admitted that he did not know the answer.

'...I can't believe that the little things like these matter in the end,' he said at last, not quite replying to Luna, but rather trying to come to peace with his own might-have-beens. 'So maybe they don't. We _did _meet, after all. Who knows –'

Who knows, and if Harry-of-those-days _had_ gone down there, and saved her – would he marry _her_, and not Ginny, later? He considered it for a moment. No, it was hardly possible. The change in Malfoy's plan had nothing to do with it, he thought detachedly: it was _her_ choice, all along. And somehow it happened that _he_ never chose whom he wanted to be with… Was it supposed to be that way from the very beginning? To have all his choices already been made for him? What's the point in choosing between what is right and what is easy then, if all he really could choose was what had been deemed right by others?

'We are standing too close to the edge, and their voices make you sad.' Luna raised her hand and gently touched his face, and only then did Harry realize that he had been crying.

'Too close… maybe,' he whispered, and absently covered her palm with his.

Their fingers intertwined, and she did not try to withdraw her hand.

'Ah, but it all is not as it seems, Harry,' she said softly. 'It's not the _real_ you.'

'How could anyone tell? Perhaps, right now I'm more myself than ever before,' he parried, not taking his piercing eyes away from her face.

Now there was something else in Luna's wide-open eyes, something beyond that barrier of undisturbed childish curiosity.

'It is not you at all,' she repeated sadly, and a single tear fell down her cheek. 'I'm so sorry. I really wish you were.'

'Not me? But whom could I be, Luna, if not myself?'

He wrung her hand very hard, as if trying to rip out the answer – the answer that, as he already knew, he would not receive from her. Then, suddenly realizing that he must be hurting her, he let her go and took a step back.

But she lifted her head and moved closer, and then put her hand at his shoulder, her touch easy as feather.

'Don't be afraid,' she whispered, and he felt her words against his skin rather then heard them, so quiet they were. 'In the end, it will be easy for you… you only need to accept it.'

* * *

AN. Thank you very much for reading! StarMirage: this was the promised small Harry/Luna moment...


	17. As Above, So Below

AN. Thank you all my readers and especially those who reviewed! You are the best!

I completely agree that this story needs some editing – and I (still) hope to do this sometime. Ch 17 is a bit longish, for which I'm sorry: it was previously two separate chapters, now merged in one... probably not a very good decision, in retrospect. Again, my apologies for mistakes and typos.

_This chapter_: Harry finishes questioning people at the Station (finally!) and meets with Dementors a bit closer than he would like.

* * *

**Chapter 17. As Above, So Below**

Harry continued his way to the Gorge – alone, feeling much more uneasy than before. It was not that he exactly succumbed to Azkaban phantoms, but he could not deny being dangerously close.

The worst of it was that the shadows in the Rift were not deceiving him with some false desires; they were deceiving him with the true desires, the ones, he knew, that were entirely his own. All the chances he missed; all the roads he did not take; all things he sacrificed – they were still _his_; they were still the part of his being. Deep in his heart, he always knew that.

'The Might-Have-Beens can eat up your soul, striving for their chance to live,' Luna said to him as they parted. It was not exactly a warning, of course, just an observation; although, with someone like Luna, you'd never know. From her words, Harry already understood that her work was somehow connected with the places like that Rift – the portals to other realities, as she called it – but he would not be surprised to learn that she spent mot only her work time, but also most of her free time there. To say the truth, he did not like this strange attraction, especially after what he had experienced himself.

Indeed, he thought darkly, this Rift is no better than the Mirror of Erised. Anything real would be better for her than everyday listening to those tales of _not-quite_, of _almost_, of _too-late_. She had to move out of here, to the real world – come for a quest for that Snorkack or whatever-is-his-name, for instance, or – damn, anything of her crazy projects would be better than the insanity of this place, however much it excited her. He himself spent hardly two days here, but they already weighted on him like a thousand. With time, Azkaban would corrupt even the most brilliant of minds: the black void beneath this rock would suck them dry. Perhaps, this is what happened to Rosier in the end?

Rosier, of course, in contrast to Luna, was an unquestionably pragmatic man, but still, he had spent more than three years here... And it could not be that they had not changed him at all. Especially later, when those problems at the Factory began. This project was the work of his life, after all.

A life that he, as Luna's mother said, would willingly give for an ideal future...

Only, what future would he consider ideal? Maybe, the one they were living in now? With so many wonderful inventions, and new possibilities beyond anything they could have imagined, and freedom almost absolute – yes, the post-war years may have seemed very much as a dream come true. Still, Rosier was a member of Grindelwald's research team once; and, from what Harry could tell, Grindelwald had a rather unique prospective of what exactly would constitute the happiness of the mankind... and by what means that happiness could be achieved. Even if he seemed to connect his Golden Age with times past, not with future – very much like his old friend Dumbledore – it hardly made any difference.

In recent years, Harry often pondered on the true reason that made Dumbledore break up with Grindelwald. It is not that Dumbledore considered the goals of his friend and adversary as terrible: no, they seemed to share the same vision, whether Harry liked it or not; and it would be very naive to deny it. It was the question of price – a price that should be paid for that brilliant Golden Age – that parted them...

And the price of their post-war halcyon days – what was it? A step closer to the great chill – to the void beneath – to that pit of ice that the old Azkaban tapestries so vividly depicted? How could anyone tell? How could anyone accept _that_?

...Harry stopped abruptly. A familiar sensation of being watched made him suddenly tense. Someone was hiding in the fog ahead of him: a hint of a silent presence to the right of the path was vague, but he could not be mistaken about it.

'Hello!' he said loudly, readying his wand. 'Is anybody there?'

He half-expected that the shadowy figure would quickly disappear in the mist at the sound of his voice, perhaps, leaving some mysterious 'gift' like yet another pile of sea pebbles – but, contrary to his expectations, the vague silhouette solidified, and in several moments Harry found himself face to face with the last of Azkaban's dwellers.

Everyone who was capable of working here was quite remarkable on usual standards, but the man that stood before him would be considered exceptional even at Azkaban. A quick look at the haggard, bloodless face, at the sunken black eyes, whose peculiar glint could not be masked with tangled dark hair covering them, left no doubts regarding the true nature of this last member of the staff. A certain Dusty Darkblade, the Dementor Driver. Harry's experiences in Transylvania were too recent – and too vivid – for him having any misconceptions about his new acquaintance.

'How do you do, Mr Darkblade,' he said, 'I guess you were warned about me. My thanks for taking the efforts to meet me outside… at this time of the day.'

Very interesting. To have a _vampire_ – and the one who clearly had not come through the compulsory Ministry conditioning – to run free, and not only that, but to work with Dementors? And he thought that nothing at this place could surprise him anymore. Still, why there was no mentioning of Dusty's vampiric nature in the official papers that he had studied before his visit here?

Darkblade slightly lowered his head, accepting Harry's silent acknowledgement. 'No trouble at all, Inspector.' His voice was somewhat muffled, but not at all sinister. 'The weather today is _great_, actually. The fog is just lovely… Shall we go inside now?'

'Good idea,' said Harry. 'Please, lead the way.'

oxXxo

Almost an hour later, they were still wandering about the dark passages somewhere deep within the rock, and Darkblade in a weary voice was explaining to Harry the peculiarities of the new defence system, sounding almost like those endless muggle tour guides, boring to stiff, whom he and Ginny had seen in a great variety during their last vacation in Europe.

'... the light pressure is adjusted to the moon phases, mostly,' Dusty was explaining. 'See this silvery glint above? And then they account for the solar activity, too, the weather and the stuff. I don't usually interfere with that thing much anyways; just watch the grates and the wires...' He sighed. 'And then I check the locks to the outer exits, since they're within the Gorge itself. Safety measures, you know.'

Now, that just did not make any sense. 'The emergency lock is _inside_ the Gorge?' Harry repeated in bewilderment. 'Seems quite strange to me. Then no one could reach it at all when the main system is down, like now – am I right?'

'Oh yes; and that's the point,' Darkblade smiled almost gloatingly, and his eyes flashed. 'Now, with the fancy thingy broken, it's like the good old times again.'

Harry looked at him with undisguised interest. 'Do you miss them, those days of old?' he asked. 'You work here for almost fifty years; things must have changed much from what they were back then.'

The old vampire grinned. 'There above – maybe... But the deeper you go, the less you feel those changes. They could do nothing to this rock with all those bright and shiny things of theirs, no matter how hard they try. They're just scratching the surface. And as for myself –' Dusty shrugged '– I outlived two Dark Lords; so what the difference does that bunch of Ravenclaws up there make for me? They will leave; _I_ will stay.'

That would have sounded pretentious at any other place, but here, in the chilly dark tunnels in the depth of the rock, lightened only with the lights of their wands, Darkblade's words were surprisingly easy to believe.

'And how happened that a person in your... situation had ended here in the first place?' Harry ventured to ask a question that bothered him from the first moments of their meeting.

'It's a long story, Inspector, and, to think of it, not that interesting at all,' Dusty replied after a pause. 'I'll spare you of it – it all was way before your time anyways... All I can say that I hardly dreamt about such a destiny in the days of my youth, but... to be honest, there are not too many respectable occupations for the ones of my kin nowadays. And this job –' He turned to face Harry, and the wand light ignited a cold spark in his eyes '– is one of the few where my true nature is indeed an advantage, and not an obstacle all you good and righteous Wizarding folks had to tolerate.'

'Indeed? And how so?'

Dusty cast away and fell silent, and only when Harry was about to repeat the question, he spoke again, in a somewhat dull voice: 'I wonder, have you ever asked himself, Inspector, what really attracts Dementors to all those miserable souls they are sent after?'

Harry just shrugged; now, there was no need for an answer, and Darkblade seemed not to even require one.

'You think they want to eat your memories? Your happy feelings? Right?' the vampire went on. 'That's what everyone is told. That's what I was told, too, when I came here. Well, this all is just rubbish. It is not all these things they are really after. It is the fire of the spirit that they want to rip out of you; the spark inside your soul that makes it all possible. They are children of the void, the part of the void themselves, and the void inside them makes their hunger unbearable. No one of us people is able to understand how strong this hunger is, not even I; though I can tell something about that myself, _oh yes I can_.'

Harry frowned, beginning to see what Darkblade was driving at. 'Are you saying that they covet for the life essence, aren't you? Same as –'

Darkblade grinned at his hesitation. 'Yes, Inspector. Same as we do. We get it through blood; they through the spirit; in the end, there's no difference. We are of the same kin, and this is why I can deal with them better than anyone else. They sense me, they sense _this_ –' and Darkblade hit his chest '– and they are afraid; because they fear the void that begot them even more than the eternal light that will destroy them.'

Eternal light? Harry was about to ask Dusty about it, when the latter said:

'And here we are, at last. The main chamber, as you asked.'

Harry switched his attention to the surroundings. The hall – or, probably, a cavern – was huge, no less than several hundred feet high; its ceiling and the opposite walls were lost in darkness. Still, the darkness was not completely impenetrable: a pale bluish glow was coming from the spots of something like lichen that he could discern on the walls here and there. And, needless to speak, it was deadly cold.

'There was no light at all here in the very beginning; the little ones– the Dementors, I mean, they would suck up everything, as you know; so the Ministry guys grew this stuff,' said Darkblade, pointing at the glowing spots. 'A bit of romantic lighting for those about to be Kissed; now, they really _do_ need this, ha. Not that I care, though.'

Meanwhile, as his eyes became adjusted to darkness, Harry was able to make out the surroundings more clearly. The strange rock, forming the walls of this cavern, looked like a gigantic sponge: hundreds of round holes of different sizes, from several inches to several feet in diameter, covered its surface, somehow making it resemble a huge piece of mould cheese. A thin black mist was curling around some of the larger holes, as if something was burning inside. The ground gradually lowered down to the centre of the cavern – and the biggest hole there was almost invisible behind the thick veil of this blackish mist.

'And this is it, Inspector. The Gorge,' said Dusty, unnecessarily stretching his thin hand and pointing at the dark opening in the middle. 'They come out from here, mostly.'

'Can we come closer?' asked Harry. 'I'd like to have a look inside.'

Dusty casted a heavy sidelong glance at him, not even trying to hide what he thought of this request.

But aloud, he said, 'Whatever you wish, Inspector.'

Harry began to advance slowly towards the black funnel in the centre. His calmness was just a mask: each subsequent step came harder and harder, and the premonition of all-too-familiar devastating despair made his legs weak and numb. 'Know what you want, the little ones, _I _do,' he heard Darkblade's murmuring behind, and his sinister whispering came irritatingly clear in this chilly air. 'Touch him, kiss him, eat him… The poor little ones. So hungry! So lonely!' Harry clenched his teeth, trying not to let out his fear, and stopped only at the edge of the funnel. There, he caught his breath, and, with the same artificial coolness, made himself to look inside.

To Harry's surprise, the black smog below was not as thick as he thought. A beginning of a narrow spiral path, running along the walls of the funnel, was clearly visible, and after some time, Harry was even able to descry a dim source of light deep below. Very interesting. He straightened up and returned to Dusty, hoping that his walk was not too hasty.

'What is this glow down there?' he inquired in a feigningly calm voice. 'Looks as if something is indeed burning.'

'If only the souls of sinners, Inspector.' Dusty smirked. 'The only light you find in hell is under the devil's cauldron, they say.'

Somehow, this poetical explanation did not satisfy Harry.

'Is it also the part of the protection system? Do you keep the light there somehow to control the number of Dementors?' he asked.

'Control the number! Bah!' Dusty grinned, showing the yellowish claws. That, and his overall too agitated look that replaced the previous sullenness, did not exactly make Harry feel at ease. He recalled the mysterious liquid Scamander was planning to give Dusty this night, and shifted uncomfortably.

'Do you think they could tell the little ones – Dementors, that is – what to do?' Dusty continued. 'With their spells, and lights, and ether nets?'

'But you said that you could manage this, didn't you, Mr Darkblade?'

'I just make sure they don't come _here_ to feed. As simple as that. This is what your Ministry is doing, too, when they want to hunt down some unfortunate sinner like me. We are bringing the little ones to their pastures, that's what it's all about. Showing them where the food is. But if you want to meet him who keeps the fire under the furnace, you need to look elsewhere, Inspector. And very much deep in that – at the very core of the matter, I'd say, ha-ha!' This laugh would have come as menacing if not for the nervous notes that had clearly sounded in it.

Harry thought of the spiral pathway he saw in the funnel, and frowned.

'Is there –' No, this was just not possible. 'Are you saying that there could be something alive down there?' Except Dementors, he added silently. 'What are these steps for?'

'They used to call it the Tunnel of Love, Inspector. The ones who got the Kiss.' Dusty looked at him with the not-so-well hidden taunt on his face. 'Do you appreciate the name, sir?'

Harry thought that he had never inquired about how exactly Dementor Kiss was administered, and up to this moment, hardly regretted his ignorance. But then, another thought came to his mind.

'And what will happen if someone else goes inside the Gorge? Not the condemned one?'

Dusty answered that with another of his predatory smiles. 'Why don't you go down and check, you clever boy, eh?' he mumbled under his breath. But then, he condescended to an explanation. 'Same. The little ones won't tell the difference. Every flesh is grass, you know.'

It was not uncommon for the vampires to become obsessed with this sort of religious symbolism, especially later in life, and Dusty seemed not to be an exception.

'But then how exactly did you manage to get those people back?' he asked. 'After the Kiss?'

Dusty looked at him as if he said something completely stupid. 'Why would someone? They climbed back on their own. Mostly, that's it. Except for the weirdoes who chose the Hell Furnace – now, _those_ would go down to the light side. The ones just like you, Inspector.'

'Thanks,' uttered Harry through his clenched teeth. 'Now, Mr Darkblade, could you tell me, what exactly _is_ this Furnace? And please, this time, spare me from any poetic allegories about souls of sinners and the like. _Understand?_'

Dusty gave a start and took his hands out of his pockets. 'No one knows for sure. I heard things, of course. The legends. You didn't seem to like the one about the souls of sinners, eh? And how about Keridwen Cauldron and the purifying fire, the source of primordial magic – heard of this one? Even Grindelwald used to believe in something of the kind, or so Rosier told me. Or this one, my favourite – about the Hvelgelmir, the birthplace of cold rivers, the ringing wellspring, which ever boils, turning future into past?–'

Harry's eyebrows rose with surprise. 'The wellspring turning future into past? The one that lies under one of the roots of the Tree of Life – here, in Azkaban?'

The old vampire, seemingly taking this remark as an evidence of distrust, gave out a disdainful sneer. 'Yes, here in Azkaban. In the very heart of darkness. Surprised, aren't you? They look for something shiny and glorious, those fools, but this is it: it is the deepest pit of cold in a god forsaken place that holds the fire of creation, fuelled by the spirits of chaos; and the little ones are just soot of its flame.'

The feverish gleam in Darkblade's eyes was more and more unsettling, but Harry forced himself to ignore that, as well as the pathos of the vampire's words.

'So it seems some people believe that you have a sort of a time machine down there, don't they?' he asked cautiously.

For some reason, these words made the old vampire furious. 'Machine!' spat Darkblade. 'Machine! Everyone in these accursed days is crazy about machines. Rosier – that one was indeed _crazy_ about them, ha, ha. Time machine, just to think of it. What time has to do with machines? Is it a machine that makes your heart beat and your blood run through your veins? Is it a machine that makes the stars shine, and the spring return every year? Nonsense! The machine is just a piece of metal; death that tries to imitate life. Even the little ones down below are more alive than this wonderful machinery all you were so proud of.'

'Which machinery? Are you referring to the Liquid Time Factory?' Harry inquired, managing to interrupt this blabbering. 'Rosier's work, right? But what connection does this place have with Liquid Time?'

Darkblade laughed like a madman. 'Everything in this place is connected with time – have you not realized this yet, Inspector? Every damn little thing! From the tiniest pebble on the beach to the Great Void this rock stands upon. This is why _he_ came here at the first place! This is why _you_ came here now! Don't deny it, Inspector, or whoever you are. I remember this look in your eyes, oh yes, I do. And the little ones – they remember you too. They sense it inside you, the hunger, the loneliness, the void. So why don't you come down – come down _again_ – and measure your hunger against theirs? Why don't you –'

'Darkblade – _stop this at once!_'

Dusty shut up immediately and stared at him with a very peculiar impression in his eyes – half fear, half disbelief. Harry met Dusty's frightened look with his own steady gaze. What he was doing now was not, strictly, speaking, a fair play, and besides, any magic of mental control sometimes had peculiar effects on vampires – but still, Darkblade's reaction was a bit overdone. Harry sighed: he needed to finish this, one way or another.

'Now, Darkblade. Tell me more about Rosier,' he said quietly.

Dusty blinked. 'And w-what about him?'

'He worked with Liquid Time half of his life. He certainly had heard of this legend about the well turning future into past. So, he must have come here at one point – if only out of curiosity. You said so yourself. I want to know what happened then.'

'He's come and gone, and that's it.'

'Gone _where_?'

'I know nothing more,' Dusty muttered stubbornly and wiped the sweat from his brow.

'You are lying,' said Harry coldly. 'You're quite bad at it now, you know. And don't imagine that I am ignorant about the potion they gave you. What exactly was the dose again? Four times the norm?'

Harry was bluffing here, for he was not sure if Scamander put his plan into action that very night – but, apparently, his guess was spot on: now, Darkblade stared at him with an unmasked horror.

'How did you –' He cut short and silenced. 'Oh no.'

'Well?'

'We were not going to harm anyone,' whispered Dusty. 'We only wanted –' He closed his eyes and hid his face in his hands.

Now, it was evident that Darkblade was clearly unwell. His hands were shaking, and the face gained the strange hue of lilac Harry saw before only on dead vampires. With belated concern, Harry looked at him closely. 'What's wrong, Dusty?'

'No, no, it can't be,' came out Darkblade's feverish mutter. 'Too early! Damn! I can't–'

He was shivering uncontrollably. Belatedly, Harry realized that what he took for an anomaly reaction to his questioning, was the result of something else – most probably, of the potion Scamander gave to him earlier. What could it be – Dragon Blood? The overdose would have been bad enough, but he'd say it was something even stronger... He quickly took out his wand and cast the mind clearing spell, and then the revitalising one. They did not seem to help much, but at least, Dusty opened his eyes.

'What did they give you?' Harry asked quickly.

'Concentrated Unicorn Blood,' Darkblade said hoarsely, and, watching as Harry's eyes widened with astonishment, added, 'Yes, we still use the stuff, and to hell with you do-gooders from the Ministry. So don't bother – you know there's no antidote from this. It should clear itself on its own in two hours. But meanwhile… they will go out. Should've been at night, damn. At full moon. When everyone's safe inside the citadel, except – Anyways, can't stop them now. The little ones still won't harm me... they won't see me at all… But you – you're a dead man, Inspector. My… apologies.' He gave out a short hysterical giggle which turned to a fit of coughing.

From this babbling, and recalling Scamander's words about increasing the number of Dementors, the unfortunate fate that faced him had become quite clear. Harry grew cold with terror. He quickly looked at the funnel – had the black mist indeed become denser, or was it just his imagination? – then turned back to Dusty and wrung his hands hard.

'Why, Dusty? Why did you want to kill me?'

Darkblade stopped coughing and spat a clot of dried blood.

'Kill _you_? What the heck does it have to do with you? We only wanted to stop _him_!'

'Whom? Whom are you talking about?'

Too late: Dusty mumbled something unintelligible – and then collapsed to the ground, senseless. For a moment, Harry looked at him, suppressing the urge of anger, absolutely pointless under the circumstances, and then switched his attention to the darkening mist above the funnel. He knew all too well what he was about to deal with.

oxXxo

It began almost on the quiet: Harry felt a sharp, suffocating wave of cold, which he easily dispersed with a single wand swish, even without a verbal spell. As soon as he did it, the haze above the funnel instantly solidified, turning to a menacing dark column at least fifty feet high, swaying side to side, like a giant snake ready to attack. Harry raised his wand and made several cautious steps ahead, not taking his eyes from the column. The silence would be absolute, if not for faint, nearly imperceptible rustling coming from the darkness ahead – and it sounded almost like a whisper.

And then, all of a sudden, the column exploded, dissipating into hundreds of swiftly moving blobs of darkness, rushing towards him. Harry was barely in time to throw them back with _Expecto Patronum_ – and Dementors' bodies melted in the burning light like cinders; they turned into flakes of ashes, slowly swirling in the air, in some weird imitation of Christmas snow. Not waiting till the next attack, Harry in several hurried steps reached the edge of the funnel, where the spiral stairs began. There, he cast away another wave of Dementors that emerged from the dark opening of the Gorge and sent his Patronus down into darkness.

Now, whose idea was that, to keep the emergency locks inside? Harry stepped on the first stairs of the descending path, unkindly wishing that this anonymous somebody would be here now, having to fight his way down.

As if realising what he was trying to do, Dementors rushed at him furiously, this time coming not only from below, but also from the numerous holes in the cavern walls. There were now not hundreds, but probably thousands of them; they were everywhere, and the new ones were coming and coming; their flow was unstoppable – and Harry clearly understood that there were just too many of them for him to deal with, and, no matter what he'd do, he stood no chance: they would simply crush him. All he had was just a few more minutes – till the light of the Patronus was still visible, and after that...

With a fierce and almost desperate gesture, he threw away the avant-garde of the dark swarm and run down as fast as he could.

Fortunately, the Patronus cleared the path for him: he had to sweep out the dark waves only a few times till he spotted the place, at last – a slightly darker spot on the wall, covered with half-crumbled runic writings. There was no time to decipher the ancient inscription, so he just pressed the three runes that looked right to him, guided by nothing but their core meaning and his own intuition. Each touch echoed with the dull clinking, and after he pressed the last one – a lightning-shaped _Sigel_ – a sharp gust of icy wind rushed past him, throwing him to the ground and extinguishing the already weakened light of his Patronus.

Lying helplessly on his back and trying to catch his breath, Harry couldn't but look up – the black round hole above and the frozen walls around him, once again, brought to mind that tapestry depicting the frozen hell that he saw on his first day here... Now, what a premonition; pity he did not believe in signs.

Every bone in his body ached, and he could hardly breathe. Still, he managed to rise to his feet somehow – only to immediately lean against the wall. The rough surface felt strangely against his skin, like crumbling earth, or, perhaps, a rotten tree-bark. With a slightly trembling hand, he wiped the ice crystals from his eyelashes, then raised his wand and cast _Expecto Patronum_. Nothing happened – not even a single ray of light had appeared. He concentrated and tried again, pronouncing the incantation as clear as he could – still in vain. He tried a couple of simpler spells, both verbal and non-verbal – all with the same result. Well, at least this gale had sent Dementors away too. He clasped the wand in his numb hand – he did not feel his fingers anymore – and made himself look down.

The mysterious light down below did not become closer, but somehow Harry could see it more distinctly now: the web of thin intertwining black lines, like cracks on the dehydrated soil, dissected its brightness. As he watched, one of the lines – a strip of darkness – became wider; it bent, moving slowly, reminding him an overgrown leech, and a sudden fit of nausea made him cast aside.

When he looked back again, the black leech-like thing had grown in size, having definitely moved much closer. It was ascending silently, in swift, but somehow broken movements, those of a blind snake, and the parts of walls touched by this darkness simply vanished, disappearing without a trace. The pervasive feeling of utter despair, of unbearable, infinite loneliness, piercing as pain, surrounded him, blowing up his mind and making his heart stop. All his nightmares and his previous encounters with Dementors were just a weak echo of this; of that ultimate, devastating longing, without either meaning or cause; of a suffering beyond reason or understanding, in which everything else faded to nothingness.

Now, it had come here. The darkness hovered over him, waiting, ready to swallow him, to melt him to cinders, to ashes without a memory or a name. He understood it all too well: this desire to break free, to destroy the prison it was immured in; but in vain, always in vain – because this thing was the part of this prison itself; because there was no prison at all. They thought that all it wanted was to take their souls, those unfortunate wretches – oh, how wrong they were. It could not care less about anything of theirs; about anything of his. It had nothing to do with _having_; it ate its fill with having. All it wanted was to _be_; to come to life, to exist – but their existence was the only thing they were not able to share with it. And so they fell, one by one, blind in this darkness, freed from everything that used to make them what they were...

He was no different: all he could share with this thing was his pain and despair.

Slowly, no longer conscious about what he was doing, he raised his hand – it looked startlingly white, almost shining against the perfect darkness – and stretched it ahead, as if in a silent greeting.

They stood like this for what might have been an eternity, but had not lasted even for a single heartbeat.

And then, the darkness ceded.

oxXxo

Harry came to dinner promptly at six, as if nothing had happened. He was even in time to tidy himself up and dress properly – almost formally – and now was drinking his coffee, pretending to be reading a three months old _The Daily Prophet_.

'You missed the lunch, Mr Potter,' Dr Caph observed politely. 'Was your visit to the Gorge... eh... instructive?'

'Oh, even more than I hoped,' Harry said with a false smile. 'And the scenery was indeed... _fascinating_,' he added markedly, carefully watching Scamander's reaction.

From the beginning of the dinner, the latter did not say a thing to Harry and hardly looked at him even once. It seemed that he was so occupied with his thoughts that he hardly noticed anything at all. Must be worrying of today's night, said Harry to himself. Of course, Rolf had no idea that Harry now was fully aware of his little conspiracy… For some reason, Harry still thought of him with sympathy – even after his recent 'adventure' at the Gorge. But then, from certain prospective, Scamander was hardly to blame; perhaps, he was just a victim of circumstances – as they all were.

Rolf slowly – way too slowly – was stirring his tea, and seemed so engrossed in that task as if the fate of the entire universe depended on it. In the end, Harry could not stand it any longer and put aside his newspaper.

'Ms Lovegood is not here again, I take it?' he asked, not specifically addressing anyone.

Dr Caph threw a habitual glance at Scamander, but the latter just kept staring into his cup, as if he had not heard a thing.

'She must have probably gone straight to her room,' said Dr Caph at last. 'She rarely dines with us … Ah… Would you like more chocolate, Mr Potter?'

Harry looked at his plate in some bewilderment, realizing that he absently ate the whole box of chocolate mints, and – a strange thing it was – had not even remembered the taste. A quite inconvenient side-effect of his dealing with Dementors earlier this day... Then he lifted his eyes and noticed that Scamander was looking at him, first in a somewhat strange perplexity, and then more and more pensively. No good in that, thought Harry: Scamander could have compared the facts, connecting this unusual appetite for chocolate with his today's visit to the Gorge, and might have even guessed what had happened there – and Harry did not want anyone to find out too early.

'No, thank you.' Harry abruptly rose from his chair. 'Dr Caph, I take it you have a couple of hours of free time now, and I would like to speak with you, if you don't mind.'

'E-eh,' Claudius Caph threw the questioning glance at Scamander, but the latter, again, pretended not to notice. 'Well, certainly, Mr Potter. It will be my pleasure. Only, would you mind coming to the observatory with me? I need to make some preparations for today's night.'

Harry smiled. 'Thank you, I guess this would be most educational. I was going to ask you about the observatory myself.'

'Oh, were you?' Claudius cast another look at Rolf, but it seemed that Scamander firmly chose not to interfere. Perhaps, he completely trusted Dr Caph's better judgment – or, which was more probable, was too occupied with his own worries. Well, if Harry's estimations were correct, very soon, poor Rolf would indeed have way too much to worry about.

He followed Dr Caph to the exit, but at the doors, he purposely stopped, as if recalling something. 'Oh, and if you please, Mr Scamander, could you, Dr Caph and Miss Lovegood meet with me for a brief talk tomorrow, right after breakfast? I'd like to have a few final words with three of you together… in conclusion of my visit.'

Scamander raised his eyes on him, not able to completely conceal both surprise and relief, and then nodded. 'Certainly, Mr Potter.'

oxXxo

The winged staircase, leading up to the observatory, was by far longer than the one in Hogwarts Astronomy tower. It took them no less than ten minutes to ascend, and at the top, Harry, already nearly exhausted with today's misadventures, had to pause to catch his breath. And Dr Claudius Caph, who was at least trice older than Harry, was making this route at least twice a day. He must be a quite springy old man, that Claudius, thought Harry, and weakly smiled.

'Well, this is my perch,' said Dr Caph jokingly, opening the door with the small ornate key. 'Please, have a look around, Mr Potter.'

Harry curiously peeked in. Inside, the observatory looked rather small: a round-shaped room no more than four yards in diameter. And it was stuffed with all kind of old writings – books, scriptures, ancient sky maps – laying everywhere: on shelves, on small rickety table near the only window, and even on the floor. Hundreds of indecipherable drawings were nailed to the walls with tiny sparkling stars. Harry looked closer: it seemed that most of them were astrology charts, and there were so many of them that they covered the walls in several layers, one of the top on another. The space free of charts was occupied by several small pictures, but their colours faded enough to make the subjects almost unrecognizable. As far as Harry could discern, all they were allegories of various constellations: Cassiopeia, Ophiucus, Pleiades… He slowly moved around the room, studying the pictures, until suddenly his glance fell on the one that seemed rather unusual.

It was an old photograph, hanging on the wall right between some unnamed charts, and looking absolutely out of place here. But it was not this aesthetic dissonance that made Harry stop in bewilderment, but the fact that the photograph depicted none other than Albus Dumbledore.

Yes, there could be no doubt in that. His old professor stood there, smiling pleasantly to Harry, hand by hand with a young girl in dark blue robes. The girl, on the contrary, was not smiling; and the impression of her serious eyes, though not unfriendly, for some reason sent shivers down his spine.

Almost unwillingly, he stretched his hand and took the photograph from the wall.

'Is this yours, Dr Caph?'

'This?' repeated Dr Caph in perplexity, looking from behind his shoulder. 'Oh!'

For some reason, Claudius reacted as if he saw the picture for the first time in his life. Or maybe, he indeed _had_ seen it only now? Harry turned the photograph and on the other side found the already familiar drawing of the tree of life, under which a single phrase was written: '_As above, so below'_.

'Eh– no, it isn't mine.' Meanwhile, Dr Caph seemed to have recovered. 'This belonged to – to someone I knew…to Rosier, actually. These people are –'

'I know them,' Harry interrupted. 'I'm only surprised to find it here… I wonder if you knew them too? I mean Dumbledore and Meadowes. This is Dorcas Meadowes, right? She was still the Head of the Department of Mysteries in seventies, if I remember correctly – did you have a chance to work with her then?'

'Well, not exactly... You see, Mr Potter, I joined the Department only in late eighties,' said Dr Caph apologetically. 'But I knew them very well, both her and professor Dumbledore. I used to teach Astronomy in Hogwarts. Dorcas was my student, in fact.'

'Oh, is it so?' Harry looked at old wizard with genuine interest. If he was there during forties, he might know some interesting stuff about Meadowes and her studies, and probably, about her initial research on Liquid Time as well. 'And what was she like, do you remember?'

Dr Caph shifted his glance towards the photograph in Harry's hand and frowned.

'Well… I guess she was a very bright young lady. Very… determined, I'd say. Despite… No, I don't think that there was something unusual about her. Definitely, nothing... of the kind.'

Now, what a curiously evasive description, said Harry to himself. Much more of an answer to Dr Caph's own doubts than to the question he asked.

'I wonder if she already began her research on Liquid Time by then... And why she decided to study it all. Maybe, someone else gave her that idea – what do you think, Dr Caph?'

The old astronomer awkwardly shifted his feet. 'Why, after memory charms – this is what she started from, if I remember correctly – Liquid Time seems to be a perfectly natural next step...' Then he shrugged and shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Mr Potter, I'm afraid I can't tell you much more than that. You see, the course Dorcas took with me – karmic astrology – is was only an elective, and I really don't know about her other interests – not that well, anyways...'

'There was something unusual about her?' asked Harry, who didn't fail to notice Claudius's hesitation. Then, recalling what he had read about those plagiarism accusations in the _Encyclopaedia Magica_, he lowered his voice and added: 'Was she indeed so close to Dumbledore as they say?'

Dr Caph winced and bit his lip, clearly reluctant to answer:

'Well, you probably have heard some of those silly rumours. There is nothing true in them; and never has been. It was only natural for them to be very close – she was his apprentice, after all… the only one in those years, as far as I remember. Few people these days seem to understand the meaning of a true magic apprenticeship. Of course, given the contemporary obsession with purely technical aspects of magic arts, it would be naive to expect any understanding at all. You see, Mr Potter, the true apprentice is the one who shares not your skills, but your devotion.'

To that, Harry could not help replying: 'The devotion alone is not enough. Your adversary shares your devotion just as well; probably better than everyone. I would say that the true apprentice is the one who makes the same moral choices as you.'

Claudius stared at Harry, surprised with his unexpected remark. 'Well, certainly, this is a valid point, Mr Potter,' he said carefully. 'I never saw it in this light, I must admit…'

Harry just waved away. 'Oh, never mind. And, speaking of true apprenticeship,' he continued, 'what was this devotion that Dumbledore and Meadowes shared?'

Dr Caph shrugged. 'Now, Mr Potter, how could I answer that? I never worked with them, as I said.' Then he fell silent for a moment, and his expression changed, as if a sudden idea came to his mind. After a pause, Claudius slowly went on: 'Although, speaking about where the idea might come from... To think of it, Liquid Time boiling seems to be very much in line with Dumbledore's other alchemic projects – the ones he did with Flammel or, they say, even with Grindelwald… Hmm, interesting…'

'What?' asked Harry impatiently.

'What unites these projects is that they are very… anti-entropic, so to speak. They are aimed at re-creating of the true essence of things, uncorrupted by either accidental interventions or temporal decay. At correcting mistakes, maybe? No, this is not right way to describe it. Perhaps, rather –' Dr Caph wavered, seemingly unable to find the right word.

'Restoring the ideal state?' suggested Harry quickly. 'Moving back to the Golden Age?'

'To the time before the Fall – a bit pretentious way to put it, but yes, one may say so... There's a fine distinction, of course. You see, Liquid Time – just like the Philosopher's Elixir – is supposed to influence the inner qualities of things, in a sense that –'

Harry contentedly nodded and then handed out the old photograph to Dr Caph once again, this time, showing him the drawing at the back.

'Now, look at this, Dr Caph. Is this Rosier's hand-writing?' He watched closely Caph's reaction as the old wizard put on his glasses and brought the picture closer to his nose.

'Hmm… It is really hard to tell. It's just one short sentence… But yes, it could be,' he admitted reluctantly.

'Any idea what could this possibly mean?'

Dr Caph shifted his eyes and shrugged. 'I'm sorry, Mr Potter, I am not really a specialist –'

'But you know what this is about, do you? Why would he leave this to you otherwise? This is the Tree of Life, right? And then, these words – _As above, so below_ – what he was trying to say, what do you think?'

Claudius, fidgeting uncomfortably, took the picture again, but did not seem to look at it at all.

'Well, the words are from _Tabula Smaragdina_, or _The Emerald Tablet_, a very famous alchemic text –'

'That much I know; and also that the text is supposed to be some sort of instruction about how to make the Philosopher's Elixir,' Harry said impatiently. 'I just can't see the connection. Liquid Time is clearly _not_ the Elixir of Immortality – or is it?'

Dr Caph smiled. 'Oh, of course not, Mr Potter. There are certain parallels, as I've said, but the allegory is much subtler here. You see, the text – and these words precisely – speaks about the fundamental principle of creation that reveals itself in all things in our universe, both great and small. This principle permeates everything – a miracle of One thing, as the text says; and that's precisely why movements of heavenly bodies manifest themselves in a destiny of man, and certain simple reactions between basic alchemic elements could, theoretically, lead to a creation of that mythical primordial substance called the Philosopher's Stone... To put it simple: because of that deep similarity between everything in our world, we could operate the things of one kind to influence the changes in something completely different... Well, it seems I don't make much sense, do I, Mr Potter?'

'Why, on the contrary,' said Harry politely. 'It just came to my mind that if Liquid Time is so similar to the Tree of Life, then it indeed could have the same effects as the Elixir of Immortality, and this could possibly mean... Well, nevermind. And did Rosier ever speak with you about these parallels?'

That simple question obviously made Dr Caph feel uneasy: Harry clearly touched the sore subject here.

'Well, it is not that he exactly discussed it with us...' said Claudius at last. 'He used to keep to himself, mostly, and during his last weeks, barely spoke to anyone at all. You see, Rosier was worrying a great deal about the problems at the Liquid Time Factory. Spent days and nights in his laboratory, checking what could have gone wrong there. Revised all of the project original plans… revised the results of the very first experiments, everything… He was a brilliant engineer, you know – a good half of all those things the Factory was producing was invented by him.'

'But he was not exactly an alchemist,' said Harry thoughtfully, 'am I right? Not like Dumbledore, or Meadowes, anyways…'

Dr Caph frowned. 'He was not – but I really can't see why it matters. Certainly, you can't say that he was incompetent, Mr Potter!'

Harry shook his head. 'I am far from it, Dr Caph. I am just trying to understand, why – And Mr Scamander is not an alchemist either, I take it…'

'His field is higher mathematical magic – I thought you knew that… But, Mr Potter, what difference does it make? The Factory was a complex mechanical system, and to make its creation possible, one would have needed to interpret the core alchemic reactions from a completely new prospective – and this is exactly what Rosier did in the first place! And I doubt that even a truly exceptional alchemist – not excluding Meadowes or even Dumbledore himself – would have understood the complexity of the Factory mechanisms as they were in the end.'

'Yes, _that_ I do believe, indeed,' Harry muttered. 'But you admitted yourself that Rosier thought that there might be some flaws in his earlier reasoning, am I right? What if he found them in the end? And what if the answer lies in those parallels and similarities we just spoke about?'

Claudius smiled sadly and shook his head. 'I wish you were right, Mr Potter. But unfortunately, he did not have time… Rolf studied all of his notes – there was not a word about it.'

'Not a word, indeed,' said Harry with a sigh. He looked at the drawing on the back of the photo again. _As above, so below... _It seemed they had their word, but unfortunately, it was not enough.

He straightened up. 'Well, Dr Caph. I won't keep you longer. You, probably, have a lot to do… to prepare for this night.' And he gave him a meaningful look.

'For this night?' The old astronomer almost jumped, but then probably recalled that it was what he himself had told Harry at dinner. 'Oh, yes, Mr Potter. We are preparing the re-launch of our ether system tomorrow, and I just need to check the ephemerides once again, to coordinate the time. Oh, and we still won't be able to do without a couple of trials, I'm afraid, so it won't be safe outside. I mean, if you were planning to go out this night –' Poor Dr Caph lied even worse than unfortunate Dusty Darkblade.

'Thank you, Dr Caph, but one of your trainees has already warned me,' answered Harry. 'And anyways, why would I go out? And where? Azkaban's night life does not seem to be particularly exciting, don't you think?'

Dr Caph gave out a forced smile. 'Yes, you are quite right, Mr Potter. All our entertainment is very much in house, unfortunately.'

_A-ah, just you wait for tomorrow_, Harry thought. Then you would see how true you were, my dear Dr Caph. At last, he had all the details he thought he needed to put an end to at least one Azkaban mystery.

Absolutely sincerely, he wished the old astronomer good night.

* * *

AN:Thank you very much for reading and for your patience with this way-too-slow and way-too-boring story!

As always, my special thanks to _StarMirage_ for being the constant source of support and inspiration – the 'Descent to Dementors' piece was included just because you asked :)

_Next chapter_: Harry hopes for his 'gather-them-all-and-blame-the-guilty-one' moment, Agatha Christie's style – but fate has decreed otherwise.


	18. Lost and Found

AN: Thank you very much, all my readers and reviewers! I am especially grateful to _Deanine_ for her detailed feedback and the words of encouragement.

I also would like to apologise in advance for today's chapter, which I don't quite like; it's mostly dialogs, and some bits in the middle might sound a trifle too technical (or rather, sci-fi-ish) and out of place, I'm afraid. Please, don't beat me – I'll probably re-do it at some point at the future :)

_This chapter_: The end of Harry's Azkaban adventures happens to be much more sad and much less revealing than he anticipated.

* * *

**Chapter 18. Lost and Found**

The best way to look as if you were sleeping was indeed to go to bed, and this was exactly what Harry did when he came back to his room after the conversation with Dr Caph.

He turned off the lights and leaned back at the pillows, staring at the familiar cracked ceiling above his head. Now, he only needed to wait.

Time passed, and he just lay there, tired but sleepless, counting the minutes in his head. The moon was probably high by now, but perhaps, Scamander and Dr Caph would wait a bit longer, just to be sure that their target would not escape. And then they would realize that Darkblade had not released the Dementors, as they agreed. Now, this would give them something to think about. They certainly would understand that their plan had failed, but would hardly dare to go there and check what happened – not until the dawn, anyways. And then –

Harry's dreamy calculations were interrupted by the loud knocking at the door. He grabbed his wand and threw a glance at the clock: it was half past one. Way too early for them to realize… and way too late for a simple social visit.

'Who is there?' he asked grudgingly.

'Mr Potter, please, open the door,' Scamander's muffled voice came from behind.

Harry cautiously unlocked the door and stared at his night guest. 'What's happened?'

In the dim light from his wand, Scamander's face looked pale and agitated, but unusually determined.

'Is Luna here with you?' he demanded.

'What?' This time, Harry did not even have to fake his astonishment.

His bewilderment and indignation were strong enough to persuade Scamander that, whatever ruthless doings he might be guilty of, _this _particular one was not among them.

'Why did you think she could be here at all? At this hour?' he said angrily. And then, he could not help adding: 'And even if she _were_ here, it would be hardly an excuse for such a visit.'

Scamander waved away impatiently.

'Mr Potter, we have no time for this. I could not find her anywhere. She has not returned this evening at all, it seems. She must be still outside.' He fell silent for a moment and then added, in a lower voice, 'To say the truth, I don't know what to do.'

A single glance at Rolf's distorted face, usually so composed and restrained, and at his feverishly gleaming eyes left no doubt in his sincerity.

'Did you check other rooms? This fortress is a labyrinth,' said Harry quickly.

'We have the means to register anyone entering of leaving the building. To all appearances, she never came back after she left in the morning.'

Harry looked at him with suspicion: 'But if this is true, why did you come here at all?'

Scamander clenched his teeth. 'You could have tampered with our systems; your Seal would give you the permission to override the controls,' he said, avoiding to look at him.

Harry managed to suppress his outrage at this suggestion; besides, he felt slightly guilty: he knew all too well that Rolf's theories about him and Luna were not completely without foundation. 'You can have my word that I didn't,' he said at last.

Rolf merely nodded. 'Then I am going to look for her,' he said evenly; and it was not his usual calm rationality, but the determination of a man who had nothing to lose.

'Alone? Don't even think of it.'

'You can't stop me.'

_You wish_, thought Harry; but aloud, he said: 'I'm coming with you.'

'But,' Scamander faltered. Several opposite impulses must be fighting inside his mind, and in the end, just as Harry had anticipated, the desire to conceal the truth conceded to Rolf's natural decency. 'I can't let you; it's too risky. The entire island will be swarming with the Dementors in half an hour.'

The absence of any surprise on Harry's face made him stop. '_You knew_?'

Harry slowly nodded: 'Yes. And about Rosier, too.'

Scamander made a movement as if he wanted to object, but then his hand fell helplessly.

'Fine then,' he said quietly. 'It does not matter now. Nothing of this matters anymore. I just have to find her.'

To Harry, it was evident that poor Rolf would hardly find anyone in his current state of mind – and, for all he knew, might even break his neck on some of those rocks on the pathway to the Gorge.

'Listen to me, Rolf,' he said. 'Gather all others downstairs. Now. We'll go together. There's no need to worry about the Dementors – they've been taken care of. Whatever happens, they will not hurt Luna or us. And bring the map of the island, we will need it.'

To Rolf's credit, he did not waste his breath on 'whats' and 'whys' or other useless remarks; neither did he question the too peremptory tone of Harry's words. Indeed, however much Scamander disliked him, he also understood that in their current circumstances, Harry's experience as an Auror was much more valuable than any personal grudge. He left without saying a single word.

...For some unknown reason, sometimes, during the most critical moments of his life, Harry managed to remain strangely cold, and his thoughts, as if by magic, gained the clarity they never otherwise possessed. This time was not an exception. With the detached lucidity of mind, he noted to himself that, in their Auror's practice, the situation would be hardly classified as challenging; perhaps, not even as complicated. The island was small enough to allow even such a tiny search party as theirs to find – well, if not to find Luna, then at least to locate her whereabouts with the sufficient precision. Tasks like this one were routinely given to students of the Auror School during the very first year of their training.

At those exercises, however, his friend's life was not at stake. But the difference was _a purely technical one_, Harry reminded himself coldly, clenching his fists so hard that the knuckles whitened.

After the brief orientation he gave to Scamander, Dr Caph and the trainees, they divided the search area on sectors and started to comb them methodically, constantly scanning the surroundings with the net of the revealing spells Harry quickly taught them to maintain. Fortunately, they needed not do this in total darkness – after some intricate charm that Dr Caph muttered, the skies above the fortress were illuminated with the most grandiose Aurora Borealis Harry had seen in his life.

In two hours, they made their way to the Gorge, and found everything exactly as Harry had expected: only tiny flocks of the black mist were seen above the central funnel, and Darkblade, totally exhausted after the brief artificial agitation caused by the potion, was happily asleep at the very spot he left him.

'How did you manage to tame the Dementors?' Dr Caph asked Harry in an undertone, snatching a moment when Scamander walked away from them to check some mechanism at the cave entrance.

'Reset the emergency locks,' answered Harry curtly, not taking his eyes from Rolf. What was he checking there? If it was a registering device of some sort, then –

Scamander probably heard his reply, and raised his head, staring back at Harry with the same strange impression that surprised him so much at dinner yesterday. At last, he slowly moved back the lid of that mysterious mechanism and returned to them.

'What is it, Rolf?' asked Dr Caph impatiently.

'Nothing. She was not here. We still could check the upper levels, but this is just –' He shook his head sceptically.

Indeed, it was pointless. And even more so for the lower levels, which they could not check, but where nothing alive, or at least human, could have existed at all. Besides, it seemed that Scamander believed – or, to be precise, was afraid – that they would find Luna at a completely different place: he certainly was aware of the Rift and her unhealthy interest in the surrounding area.

However, as they reached the stone terrace Harry spoke with Luna the day before, they found nothing. The railings, damp from the fog coming from below, were at their proper places, and there was no sign that something unusual might have happened here earlier. The party thoroughly examined every suspicious rock nearby, leaving no stone unturned – but to no avail. Almost desperate, Scamander came to the very edge of the Rift and lay down at the cold rocks, bending over the abyss and trying to discern something in the darkness below. After some hesitation, Harry kneeled down beside him, not so much looking for a trace of something suspicious in the Rift as watching over Scamander himself.

'How deep is this crevasse?' Harry asked him, just in order to break the silence.

'It goes down to the sea level, and god knows how deeper below the surface.'

Harry quickly made the calculation. 'The cliff is at least nine hundred feet high.'

'Yes; our spells will not reach the bottom.'

'I wonder, is there indeed a spring somewhere below?' Harry asked suddenly. 'Luna said there is; or rather, might be, as she put it.'

Scamander shook his head: 'It's just smooth basalt everywhere. No openings, no ledges, nothing.' Then he fell silent, staring into the lilac fog with the eyes that seemed almost blind.

Harry was about to tell him that they should move on when Rolf spoke again, very quietly, still not looking at Harry at all. 'You know, the boys saw you and Luna yesterday,' he said. 'Accidentally, of course. Claudius sent them to find her when he noticed that she went outside.' A bizarre, ghostly smile appeared on his face.

Harry wished the earth could swallow him up at once. 'Rolf, I –' he barely managed to say. 'It is not that –' _Damn! No wonder Scamander was acting so strange since yesterday's evening!_

'Did you… upset her somehow?' continued Scamander in the same unnaturally quiet voice, completely ignoring his words.

'Of course not!' _Though he gave a nice try, oh yes_. 'We just recalled our school days, mostly.' Harry could not fail admitting how weakly this sounded.

For several moments, Scamander remained silent, his eyes still fixed on the haze below. 'Never mind,' he whispered at last and rose to his feet, as before, avoiding to look at Harry. 'Never mind.'

Dr Caph, watching them questioningly for some time already, finally decided to interrupt this too long a tête-a-tête. 'Let's go,' he said, coming closer. 'We still haven't checked the north-western sector.'

But Rolf shook his head. 'No. We need to get down there,' he said firmly. 'We'd better go back to the fortress, there's a side trail from the beach.'

'But it's a long way around; we'll lose at least two hours,' Harry objected.

Scamander bestowed him with a look that made Harry understand that it would be better not to argue with him now: he seemed to be positively fixed on this Rift.

When their small party reached the beginning of this trail – it was the same one Harry spotted on his very first day here – the sky at the east began to lighten. Harry couldn't but breathe with relief: the several hours they spent outside made him feel as if this night would never end… One of the trainees pointed to the heavy storm clouds at the horizon further to the south; the silent flashes among them looked as the distant lightning of the approaching thunderstorm.

'It's not a storm,' said Dr Caph, after observing the skies for some time. 'They match to the patterns of our own protection network; looks as if someone is trying to get to us from the mainland.'

Harry turned to him sharply: 'Are you saying they're trying to restore the Net from the other side? Is it possible?'

'Theoretically. With our own almost regenerated…' He shrugged and fell silent.

None of them was in the mood for speaking by this time. They were tired, true; but the main reason was that the overall spirit was too gloomy to maintain appearances anymore. Harry thought that their hope of finding Luna – finding her alive – was fading with every hour, and he knew that the others could not help understanding it either.

'Are there any caves on the island? Besides the ones at the Gorge?' he asked.

'Not to my knowledge,' said Scamander shortly.

Meanwhile, the sand beach they walked on had narrowed to a tiny strip of land that hardly allowed them to pass without getting their feet wet. They had to advance in one file, holding on to the rocks not to fall.

At last, they reached the cleft. From down here, it looked as if someone had sliced the island on two parts: the opening was deep and dark, and the cold waves of the sea were breaking upon the sharp rocks in the narrow strait that looked as shark's jaws. Harry shrugged: a misfortunate who would fall into the Rift would have got smashed to pieces at those basalt blades, and the violent waters down below would not have left even a trace of what had happened…

'See, Rolf, there's nothing here,' he said impatiently. 'We should come back.'

But Scamander did not pay attention to these words. He stood there, not moving, his eyes fixed on something in the crevasse above their heads. Harry followed his glance – and nearly lost his balance. There, on the sharp stone several feet above the sea, his green windbreaker hung – dirty and torn, but definitely the very same one he gave to Luna the other day.

Almost mechanically, he took out his wand and cast _Accio_. The green shred fell to his feet, and, with the rising horror, he realized that the dark spots on it were not dirt, but dried blood.

Suddenly, a rustle of the falling stones came from behind, making him start. He turned around sharply and found himself face to face with the same man he met on his very first day here. Now, he was hardly recognizable: his greyish hair was dirty and tangled, his clothes almost in rags. Harry slowly raised his wand, pointing it to the man's chest.

'Well, hello, Mr Rosier,' he said. 'Very nice to see you... again.'

The man showed no sign of understanding. Instead, he smiled and withdrew something from the sleeve of his rags. Harry lowered his eyes: in his bonelike hand, Rosier (or whatever left of him in his body) held the ill-fated Hogwarts snow-globe.

'_Justice incited my sublime creator, created me divine Omnipotence, the highest Wisdom and the primal Love,_' he said in that weird voice of his, that of a mechanical doll.

At least, the man stayed true to his love to Dante's poetry, Harry thought with sort of a dark amusement; probably, it was too much to handle even for the Dementors. He slowly reached out his hand and took the globe from him, not lowering the wand.

'Careful, the usual spells will have no effect on him,' Scamander said admonishingly. 'We'll need to catch him without magic somehow.'

Strange, but at first Rosier seemed to have no intention to resist them: when Harry cautiously took his hand, he did not even flinch.

'Will you come with us?' asked Harry, making a sign to Scamander to come closer.

'Come with you?' the poor madman gave a short nervous laugh. 'All my life, I followed; and no deeper can I go. This is my place, my own hell, the end of my golden thread.'

Scamander took Rosier's other hand. 'Herbert,' he said patiently. 'Where is Luna?'

But Rosier shook his head, and a tear flashed in his eye. 'When you look too long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you,' he mumbled. 'Or is it looks after?' Then he suddenly switched his eyes to Harry. 'Isn't _this_ what you wanted? Do you see it now, young sir, what is it, _when all these might-have-beens come true at last_?'

'What did you do to her?' snapped Harry with sudden anger. 'Answer!'

The poor old man shivered, then hung his head helplessly and started to sob.

'Stop it,' said Scamander, hidden torment in his voice. 'Nothing will come of it. He's completely lost his mind.'

'Completely? I doubt it.' Harry narrowed his eyes. 'Though perhaps that's what he wanted. It's his consciousness that tortures him now. Am I right, Mr Rosier?'

With a wild roar, the old man broke free from them and pounced on him, clearly aiming for the eyes. He possessed a considerable strength, strange in such a fragile body, and Harry, with all his Auror's training and Scamander's help, hardly managed to restrain him.

And then suddenly, Rosier calmed down on the instant, as if someone switched him off. He raised his eyes on Harry – their impression that of a perfectly sane man, only a very tired one – and said:

'My pride has led me here, to _you_, to the inverted tree, Daat, an abomination. Now, in the deepest pit of black my soul will freeze forever; and yet, it is immortal.' He gave out a triumphant smile and stretched out his hand, pointing at Harry. 'But _you_ will be cast out even from this Hell you created, and beyond your time, there is nothing.'

oxXxo

Five hours later, when the pale sun of early winter twilight almost touched the leaden sea, casting a pearly gleam on the heavy clouds of the storm that never came, four of them – Harry, Scamander, Dr Caph and Rosier, who was still bound, – sat in one of these gloomy rooms of the abandoned wing; the one that was perhaps too large to be a cell in the old days, but the malevolent aura in which was so strong that it would have made even the healthy man, free for any superstitions, feel uneasy.

After Dr Caph and the trainees led Rosier back to the fortress, Harry and Scamander spent the rest of the day searching for Luna, even though, after Rosier's obscure and because of that, sounding even more sinister remarks, their hope to find her had almost vanished. Needless to say, their efforts remained absolutely fruitless, and finally, totally exhausted and in some kind of an oppressive stupor, they came back and now joined Dr Caph and Rosier in this hastily made 'cell'.

Scamander's nervous agitation and despair seemingly dissapeared, as he came to terms with the finality of what had happened, but Harry liked the unnatural air of distant indifference that came to their place even less. Still, Rolf was clearly not going to lose his mind and behaved very reasonably, showing an enviable self-control - which was somewhat relieving. Right now, he moved out from the corner some weird-looking cumbersome apparatus, looking like an intricate torturing machine – and perhaps, not only looking like it – and now with a melancholic concentration was tinkering about with it, time from time checking something against the sheet of ancient-looking parchment and whispering some unintelligible spells as he touched the obscure symbols on the side of this strange device with his wand.

Dr Caph, who obviously felt ill at ease, fidgeted nervously.

'Listen, Rolf, perhaps, we shouldn't? Why not to put him back, at the old infirmary?'

'He'll escape from there, just as he did the last time.' Then Scamander threw a sad glance at Claudius and added, 'No need to worry, I'm not going to do anything... medieval.' Bitterness, so clearly heard in his tone, somehow made Harry think that Scamander would not mind to apply to Rosier something very much medieval had the opportunity arisen. 'This is just to keep him still.'

'And then again, it's only temporarily,' Harry added, observing as Rolf carefully led Rosier inside this cage and locked the grate. 'We'll take him back to the mainland as soon as the connection is re-established.'

'If you can.'

'Trust me, Rolf, the Ministry have many ways to keep the person shut this days, and some of them much more ingenious than even Azkaban,' said Harry, thinking about the Department of Information and their new security system. 'There's only one thing I still can't understand. Why didn't you inform us of what had happened immediately? And what for to invent this entire story about falling from the cliff?'

Dr Caph clasped his hands in dismay. 'But, Mr Potter, we didn't invent anything! We informed the Ministry at once - the very day we found the body!'

Harry frowned, not quite understanding. 'What do you mean – the body? He looks very much alive, as we all have a chance to ascertain.'

With a dark sneer, Scamander raised his cold eyes at him. 'Ah, you truly believe there is _only one_ thing you don't understand?'

Harry slowly exhaled, trying not to lose patience. 'Fine. Then tell me everything yourself. From the very beginning.'

Scamander turned away and at first remained silent, gathering his thoughts, or maybe, pondering if it was worth to waste his time on some unnecessary explanations. But at last, he decided to speak.

'When we met the other day, I told you the truth. Rosier indeed worried a lot about the Factory and what was going on there. Only, it was much worse than you probably think. He never had what you might call a pleasant temper, but at that time, he became asocial to a point of hostility. You know, in our situation, when there are only four of us, living in a place like this –'

Harry nodded: he perfectly understood the potential consequences of a nervous breakdown of one of the members of a small group of people, almost completely isolated from the outer world.

'And then, nominally, he still was the Head of the Division, and so was responsible for everything that was going on here, at the facility,' Rolf continued. 'And we simply couldn't – It was impossible just to turn a blind eye to the way he acted. We tried to talk to him several times, both Dr Caph and myself; but he just didn't listen. It became worse with every day, and in the end, he severed any communication with us completely. Spent all his time in his study, with his calculations and experiments, and hardly ate and slept at all. We could not allow it to continue – and were about to inform the Ministry, when it all happened.'

Harry became all ears.

'One night, he barged into my room – very agitated, I'd say even feverish – and with some slip of paper in his hand.'

Harry fumbled about in his pockets and procured a page that he had taken from the file with the project blueprints during his night visit to Scamander's study.

'This one?' he specified.

Scamander threw a brief glance at the paper and looked at Harry in disbelief. 'But how did you guess? There were thousands documents in those files – are you saying that you indeed can understand all these calculations?'

_Oh, you'd be surprised_, thought Harry darkly, a bit annoyed with this almost slighting remark, but aloud, just said: 'Let's suppose it was merely a lucky guess... So, what about Rosier? What did he say to you?'

'I'm afraid, there was hardly any sense in what he told me. He was extremely nervous; his thoughts in complete disarray,' Rolf, wincing, passed his hand over his hair, recalling. 'The essence of his speech – if there was an essence at all – was that our understanding of the last stage of Liquid Time manufacturing, the final synthesis, was utterly erroneous.'

'The inverted Tree, the back of the Universe,' said Rosier suddenly, and everyone startled and turned to him. 'Sacrilege, abomination.'

Harry waited a bit, in hope that Rosier would bestow them with yet another equally obscure revelation, but the poor madman remained silent. 'If I understand correctly, he talks about the Tree of Life?' he asked. 'That is, your Factory is some kind of an equivalent of this Tree? But then, what does this mean – the inverted Tree?'

'You see, the Tree of Life is just a metaphor,' said Scamander. 'The Factory was by no means a replica, or, say, an artificial equivalent of some mythical tree – if only in a very allegoric sense. We used this allegory merely for convenience, to designate the principal nodes of the lattice and better understand the energy flows – because the entire process of Liquid Time manufacturing could be described in terms of the topology of energy connections between the principal elements, those forming the nodes of the lattice – or, continuing this analogy, between Sephiroth of the Tree.' To all appearances, this time Scamander did not mock him, but truly seemed to assume that Harry was perfectly capable to understand all his explanations, and Harry decided to play along.

'The inverted Tree, Daat,' Rosier mumbled again. 'One source, one beginning. To reverse the order, to bring it back, to the point where it all started – to the end of all things, the unification. This is what she did – Daat! _Unification_! What a fool I was!'

Harry looked at him, frowning, and then turned back to Scamander again: 'Does it make any sense to you – I mean, from a scientific prospective?'

'This is the strangest moment of it all,' Rolf replied pensively. 'You see, in the original Tree of Life, the way it is usually depicted, the node corresponding to Daat is not present at all. I will not go into too much detail here, but in very simple words, this is because Daat represents the principle that in our world, in this Universe, is unrealizable – because it contradicts the normal order of things. But Liquid Time itself, in its basic form, also contradicts this normal order. And to make its creation possible, it was necessary to change the direction of natural energy flows and connections between the nodes – I guess, this is what he calls now "the inverted Tree". The node that corresponds to Daat is the principal thing in the entire project, all that matters in it, because this is where the synthesis is completed. You can't remove this node from the scheme or bypass it somehow by shifting the system configuration – it's the essential core upon which the process itself is built. Without it, there simply would be no Factory at all. This is what I tried to tell him that night.'

'The Factory!' Rosier sniffed. 'As if _she_ would give a damn about the Factory. This was never about the Factory, never at all,' and he again gave out that weird mechanical laugh in which were no joy at all. 'For I went there, to the heart of the Void, the root of the stone, where voices cease, and memory shatters.'

For Harry, these last words were no mystery anymore: as he already guessed yesterday, for one reason or the other, Rosier decided to explore the depths of the Gorge – the very heart of the Void he spoke of.

'However it might be, it was clear to me that it went too far, and that he was crazy enough to feed himself to the Dementors,' Scamander continued. 'I could not just leave him like that; let alone allow him to remain responsible for the Station. I called for Dr Caph; together, we managed to bind him and locked him up. We were going to inform the Ministry the very next day. Unfortunately,' Scamander winced, 'he escaped somehow, and ran straight to the Gorge. He had taken into his head this idea that the portal to the Void – the natural equivalent of what we called Daat – exists, and exists here, at the bottom of the Gorge. He talked Dusty into this – or maybe threatened him, we don't know – and they both activated the protection barrier to its full power. He indeed wanted to get down there... Well, you may easily guess what happened then,' concluded Scamander with a sigh, and fell silent.

'Why, to be perfectly honest, we can't be sure what exactly happened,' Dr Caph interrupted. 'We control the Dementors on the upper levels, but Merlin knows what's going on there in the depths. They probably got to him when he descended deeply enough. There is no bottom at all; not in the usual sense, anyway...'

Harry thought about his own adventures in the Gorge, and slowly shook his head.

'No, I don't think it was the Dementors that made him like that,' he murmured. 'Though, who knows... If he indeed managed to get that deep...' Down, to the light side, Harry recalled. A bizarre idea came to his mind, and he sharply turned to Rosier. 'So, what was it like, Mr Rosier? _To finally see the light_, after all these years?'

Rosier recoiled in horror, glaring at him as if he saw a ghost, and hit the back of his 'cell', so that the symbols on the side panel began to flash fiercely.

'Mr Potter!' Dr Caph exclaimed, clearly astonished – not so much with Harry's weird remark as with even weirder tone in which it was delivered.

But Harry still kept looking at Rosier, not taking his eyes from him, as if trying to rip an answer from the depths of his twisted mind, and the latter, not able to withstand this piercing gaze, hid his face in his trembling hands.

Harry sighed with disappointment and turned away. 'As far as I understand, the story does not end here. So let me guess. Very soon, you met him again – alive and kicking, right?' he asked.

Scamander, also puzzled with Harry's somewhat strange behaviour, paused before replying:

'Well, yes and no. First, we found his body, and at the place we did not expect. It was at the very spot we met him today – he lay at the reefs at the bottom of the rift. We don't know how he got there. Perhaps, there's some portal in the Gorge. Perhaps, something else happened. But the body looked as if he broke himself to death from the falling. And this was what we told the Ministry.' Scamander paused for a moment. 'It was Luna who found him that day, and I wonder –'

He did not finish the sentence, but Harry perfectly understood the meaning of the unsaid words: _I wonder if this is why it all ended like this._

'So, what did you do?'

Rolf let out a short joyless laugh. 'And what could we do, in your opinion? We certainly followed the procedures, and gave him a proper burying. Dispersed the ashes from the top of Claudius's tower, as he can confirm.'

Dr Caph nodded silently.

'But he returned – if not fully alive, then definitely kicking, as you put it,' Scamander went on. 'We saw him two or three days after on the beach, playing with those pebbles that you showed us the other day.'

'It was too far away, and he disappeared too fast – we weren't even sure if it was not a ghost,' Dr Caph added. 'To say the truth, we almost expected him to return as a ghost; he was too fixed on this Factory project, you see.'

'Rather quickly, we ascertained that whatever he is, he's not a ghost,' said Scamander. 'That left not too many possibilities. Of course, the first thing I thought of was that he had a horcrux hidden somewhere. This would not surprise me in the least. You probably heard that in his early youth, Rosier was one of Grindelwald's old research group, and they did nasty things there, in the Laboratories of his. And then, half of his relatives, including his younger brother, became Death Eaters.'

'Relationship often means nothing in such things,' Harry couldn't help objecting, thinking of Sirius. 'He didn't join Voldemort himself, after all.'

Scamander and Dr Caph exchanged a somewhat awkward look, and then Dr Caph said reluctantly:

'Some things that he said after his… incident – well, they were very much revealing. And then again, this frozen pit he constantly speaks of... He often quotes _Inferno_, as you know, so this image may be of a particular significance to him.' He lowered his voice. 'The ninth circle of Dante's Hell, the deepest one, is an ice pit that holds the souls of those who betrayed the trust.'

An uneasy silence followed. It was not hard to make a connection: to Harry, it was already evident that there were disagreements between Rosier and Meadowes back in the seventies, and perhaps, disagreements strong enough to make him betray her to Voldemort. That's why, probably, Rosier always mentioned that 'her' so bitterly... These were only guesses, of course; but perhaps, they would never know the truth now.

'But, as we verified soon, he has not created a horcrux,' meanwhile, Scamander continued. 'His soul appears to be quite intact. But his internal timeline is absolutely twisted, and so does his perception of time. It seems that he perceives the reality continuously only within the very short time intervals, to longer than two or three minutes – sometimes just a couple of seconds. It is as if he exists in a constant 'now', with no memory or purpose; his personality completely shattered. His words are like splinters of glass in a kaleidoscope: strong emotional stimuli may make him say something, but he hardly understands the meaning of what he's saying. He jumps between these fragments of time back and forth – and sometimes, not only mentally, but also physically, though I don't understand how the latter is possible at all... I am speaking now, of course, only about the periods when he is, so to speak, alive.'

Harry looked at him, not quite understanding. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that after his first… resurrection, we found his body six more times; every time at the same spot, at the rocks below the Rift. First five times, we went to, if I may say so, _considerable efforts_, to give him a final rest. The last time we decided just leave him where he was.'

'But it did not help...' Harry mumbled. 'Of course, if a timeline is shattered like that...'

Scamander just shrugged. 'Few days after, he left a new example of his pebble artwork outside the dining room.'

To Harry, all that had been said sounded as if someone tried to retell him a nightmarish dream, and Scamander's polite, emotionless manner made this eerie impression even stronger.

'Finally, we just decided to leave him to his own devices. After all, this incident looks rather trivial in comparison to some of the other phenomena that we encounter here,' explained Scamander. 'You read the reports, so you know what I mean'.

To say the truth, Harry concentrated mainly on the sections that dealt with the research on Liquid Time, merely leafing through the rest, and so managed to recall only snatches of some tales about the havoc caused by the malicious apparitions of Azkaban's fourteen former wardens or something of the kind. Well, Rolf might be right, but still, letting these poor scientists to deal with the stuff like this on their own was very unwise…

'And then again, Mr Potter, being perfectly honest, I can't say that misfortunate Rosier caused so many problems to us,' said Dr Caph conciliatorily. 'He would leave these stones, or sometimes small objects for us, like this photograph in my observatory that you saw, but he was completely harmless; he would never hurt a living –' and then he abruptly stopped: indeed, though this might be true for the past days, after what happened to Luna, everything had changed.

An awkward silence hung. Harry stood up and went to Rosier's "cage", for some time staring at him vacantly and thinking over what he just learnt. No, there still must be something else, he decided finally. If all was just as Scamander and Dr Caph were saying, there was no need for them to be afraid of his visit so much – and they definitely were... He shook his head and turned to Scamander again.

'There was something else that he did, wasn't there?' he asked, looking at him fixedly. 'Something that you didn't want to tell me about?' And then added, in a lower voice, 'If he risked everything going down there because of that Factory, he must have found a way to do something, even in his current state... especially after it blew up.'

A cold and somewhat ironic smile appeared on Rolf's face. 'In his current state, the notions of "before" and "after" are very much meaningless, I'd say.'

Harry straightened up, realising at last what might have happened. If Rosier's internal timeline was as twisted as it seemed, then he might have learned about the disaster _before_ it actually occurred. And in such a case –

'He tried to warn about the catastrophe, but you did not let him,' Harry said pensively. 'And now you probably blame yourself for that.'

'If I blame myself for something, then it's for _not_ stopping him in time,' Rolf parried coolly. 'Because Rosier _did_ send his warning. Broke into the communication room, and transmitted the direct emergency command – an order to stop the Factory. I didn't even know he had the codes... And just six hours later, the Factory blew up.'

Now, if that's what happened... the timing was too perfect for it to be a mere coincidence. Unfortunately, Harry knew all too well that – just as it was the case with the self-fulfilling prophecies – it would never be possible to reconstruct the true causal relationship between the two events. Did the Factory blow up because the warning came too late – or because Rosier did send it at all?

'But this order by itself certainly could not cause the catastrophe?' he decided to clarify.

'In theory – of course not,' said Scamander. 'The emergency shutdown was a standard procedure, after all, and should have taken from thirty to forty-eight hours to complete, depending on the prior state of the system. But then again, in theory, there should have been no problems there at all, in the first place. No delays, no loss of energy, no nothing. But if the process was already unstable, any further intervention could have upset the equilibrium... Perhaps, this command was just the last straw. Or, perhaps, it did not matter at all. As I said to you before, we simply don't know enough to state anything definitely.'

Harry winced. A possibility of Rosier's destroying the Factory himself in the vain attempt to prevent the very same from happening – now, this could have formed a sufficiently sophisticated explanation, even not devoid of a certain paradoxical beauty. But unfortunately, it seemed that the reality was still more complex than that.

'Anyways, after that, we set our main protection system at almost full power. It usually helped us to suppress the activity of various non-material beings here, if they became too restless. I'd say it helped with him too, though to a lesser extent. Anyway, he had been very quiet after that... until you arrived,' said Scamander. 'The Net was damaged, and could no longer keep him at bay. And you definitely seemed to have attracted his attention. To say the truth, I was afraid not that he would hurt Luna, but that he would hurt _you_.' A strange, unkind grimace twisted his face. 'That's why I decided to put an end to all this... by more radical means.'

'By setting the Dementors on him?' Harry somewhat doubted the adequacy of such a measure.

Scamander made an indefinite gesture. 'Well, if all other ways to dispel him failed...'

Harry shuddered uncomfortably and looked at Rosier again. Somehow the poor man seemed to him more than just something to which the pejorative term 'dispel' could be applicable.

'But he is not a ghost... or Inferi... He's not in his mind, true, but –' He shook his head. 'Don't you think it's not quite right to kill him like that?'

'You are speaking as if he's still alive,' observed Rolf a trifle disapprovingly.

Harry said nothing.

'But he is not; that's the point. The man called Herbert Rosier is dead. He –' and Scamander pointed to the poor being in the cage '– is essentially no more Rosier than, say, his photograph or a portrait. Or his animated corpse.'

'The only difference is that he suffers,' Harry said in a somewhat strange tone. 'It's a very human quality, you know.'

But Scamander remained adamant in his position. 'The more reasons I had to try. Such an existence is hardly a life. It would only be better if we succeeded.'

'There _might be_ a certain ethical dilemma,' Dr Caph, who listened to them silently for so long, suddenly put in. 'But I completely agree with Rolf here. And then, Mr Potter – you indeed do believe that the ability to suffer is the most important determinative attribute of being human? As opposed to, say, having an immortal soul or some other, for instance, more biological criteria? It's a rather debatable position, you know, and I personally –'

Here Harry felt that he was about to be drawn into a quite untimely philosophical discussion on the fine nuances of meaning of "being alive" and "being human" – a discussion he would rather prefer to avoid – but, fortunately, was saved by the arrival of one of the trainees, who told them that their wireless connection with the outer world was restored, and that someone from the Ministry was urgently demanding to speak with Mr Potter.

oxXxo

Harry expected to see his boss, Gawain Robards, or perhaps some of his colleagues from the Auror Office. However, to his utter surprise, it was Hermione who greeted him through the pale veil of etheric threads. For some reason, his first thought was that something had happened to Ginny and children.

'Hermione! Why – it everything all right at home?'

'Why are you there at all?' she fell on him straight away, not troubling herself with the greetings. 'You haven't say half a word to anyone that you were leaving; not to Ron, not to Robards, not to even Ginny – we didn't know what to think –'

Harry was taken aback by the tone of her voice – almost hostile – and on the instant, all feelings caused by the circumstances of his arrival to Azkaban emerged in his heart with the new strength.

'What do you mean, I told no one? The inspection was planned forever; it's only –' he wavered '– it's only that I decided to go this year myself; I explained to everyone why... And what I really wouldn't mind to know is that why someone decided to put stroke in my wheel and had just cancelled our schedule, not even bothering to tell me?'

For a moment, Hermione seemed to become speechless.

'You blame _us_ for what's happened?' She was glowing with indignation, but then suddenly calmed down and finished acidly: 'Just so that you know, you did not get the final approval – the plan of the inspection was to be sent to our Head of the Department and to the Minister himself first.'

'What? But we never did that before… Ah, now I see. This is just another one of those wonderful Mr Nott's initiatives, am I right?'

'It was signed by all the Department Heads,' she said diffidently. 'And however it may be, you –'

'And however it may be, I had to make my way here with the protection system in full power; and I hope you understand what it means,' he parried no less acidly. '_Just so that you know_.'

Even in this vague projection, Harry could see that her eyes rounded with astonishment.

'But never mind.' He waved away, already tired from this pointless wrangling, absolutely untimely now. 'To say the truth, our situation here is very difficult.'

'I understand that you had an emergency – that boy mentioned some kind of an accident – is it something serious?'

'I bet,' said Harry darkly. 'Luna… disappeared.'

'Luna?' she gasped. 'What do you mean – disappeared? How could that be?'

And again – something was not quite right there. Hermione's grief and pain were certainly unfeigned, but still, there was a peculiar singularity in the way she reacted: a shade of... no, not insincerity, but of... deliberateness of a kind; as if she was almost not surprised – and maybe, even expected to hear this news. But Harry just cast away the thought: no, it would be simply impossible.

With a sigh, he proceeded to give her a condensed version of the events of the last two days – first of all, of broken Protection Net and not-quite-dead Rosier, and finishing with Luna's disappearance and their search for her; all this time, carefully avoiding to mention either Rolf's escapade with the Dementors or his own belief that they would hardly find Luna at all, let alone alive.

His restraint was unnecessary: Hermione seemed to have no doubts in Luna's sad fate.

'So, you think that this unfortunate Rosier is guilty in what happened to her?' she asked. 'But why would he do such a thing?'

Harry just shrugged indefinitely.

'It's hard to tell. I'm not sure to what extent he may be considered alive at all, but in any case, he's hardly conscious about his actions. He could quote you some fancy poetry one moment and then try to break your neck the next one.'

'And are you saying that this... whatever it is... happened to him in that Dementors' cave? Was he Kissed?'

Again, Harry thought about his own descent to the Gorge and this strange creature from darkness and winced.

'He might be, on top of other things, but – I'd say everything is much more complex... You know, Hermione, I believe that it was a mistake from the very beginning, to move the Experimental Charms division here. This place, it is not... it's not what we think it is. We should evacuate them from here as soon as possible.'

Hermione said nothing, seemingly deep in her thoughts.

'Perhaps, you are right,' she said at last. 'But we could decide this later. I'll tell Robards about what happened – we will send you some assistance immediately.'

'I think I'll need the full Auror searching group. Not that there's much hope, but still... And then the evacuation team; let's see whom we could take from Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. And for the future – it would be very nice to have someone from those people who installed this Protection System in Gorge; who was it by the way – the Division of Death guys? I'll need to go down there again, to check –' _to check what this light really is_, he thought; but said only, 'to check what exactly happened to him, to Rosier, I mean.'

Hermione looked at him with some distrustful perplexity.

'Down there again?' she repeated in an odd voice. 'Into the Gorge?'

'Well, at some point; certainly not now,' Harry said quickly, trying to forewarn Hermione's usual objections about how it's dangerous, irresponsible and whatever. 'I'll need to check something else first, and so I'm going back as soon as we finish the search.'

'Yes, you need to come back, indeed,' Hermione said quietly. 'Because we... Oh, and by the way, what is this "something else" you're going to check?'

Harry lowered his eyes, hesitating. He was not sure if it was the right moment to ask about it, and besides, he did not know anymore how much he could tell Hermione now, given how strangely she acted towards him recently... and even right now. But nevertheless, he ventured to continue:

'I just have this idea – you know, not an idea even, just a thought – Rosier keeps saying about what happened to the Factory and about this inverted Tree of Life they created, and I wonder…'

'What?' Hermione's voice came to him strangely emotionless.

'If there's an inverted Tree of Life, there should be the original one somewhere, right? Sounds pretty logical to me... And now I believe I know where.' He looked at her intently and went on, very slowly, carefully observing her reaction. 'Tell me, Hermione. This thing in the Department of Mysteries behind the locked room – is it the Tree of Life? _The real one_?'

Her eyes widened, but he could not discern the impression in them – disbelief? astonishment? fear? He felt her tension almost physically now, even in this vague projection.

'Harry,' she exhaled in a voice so small that it was hardly audible. '_You can't go there_.'

And at that very moment he understood what it was at last, that feeling Hermione had tried to conceal for so long, first masking it with feigned annoyance, and then with businesslike coolness: it was profound, almost unthinkable despair, beyond any reason or imagination, as if she knew something so terrible that nothing in the world could neither soothe nor fix it – something much worse than even Luna's disappearance and possible death – and this feeling of ultimate grief was so strong that Harry's heart sank.

'Hermione,' he said in a yet quieter voice. _I'm so sorry, Hermione, but there is no other way._ 'I understand everything. I do. But please. Please, help me.'

She lowered her head in silence, not looking at him.

'I have to go there, 'he said again, almost in a whisper, speaking not so much to her as to himself. 'I have to understand.' _The missing link, the heart of it all_.

When she looked at him again she looked perfectly – no, lifelessly – calm.

'All right,' she said evenly. 'I'll help you. But it won't be easy. Not easy at all, even for me – and, considering all circumstances, especially for me. You will have to do everything exactly as I say. Exactly, Harry, understand? Not arguing, and not asking any questions.'

Harry met her gaze boldly, and was frightened to see how frozen, almost dead her eyes seemed now. What circumstances she was talking about – her strange relationship with Nott, the nature of which he was still not able to understand? He thought about this black, uncompromising despair and shuddered, afraid to imagine what she possible had to deal with. And he, what a good friend he was, indeed: all but abandoned her on her own with that type – perfectly aware what he was capable of. But there's no point in all those regrets now: it was late, way too late.

'Yes,' he said hoarsely, and a sound of his own voice came to him frighteningly alien in this grey empty room. 'I promise. I'll do everything you ask.'

And as he said that, it became perfectly clear for him: well, this was it, the end; and from this point, there would be no turning back.

* * *

AN: My traditional thanks to all who read this!

Source of quotes, just in case:

"Justice incited my sublime creator..." – from Dante's _Inferno_, Canto III

"When you look too long into the abyss..." – from Friedrich Nietzsche's _Beyond Good and Evil_, Aph. 146.

StarMirage – my huge gratitude for the inspirational talk and apologies for the lack of action in this chapter. The next one will have some ;)

_Next chapter (the end of Part I)_: With Hermione's help, Harry gets inside the locked room in the Department of Mysteries at last – but will it bring him the revelation he hoped for?


End file.
